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The night after Eijun and Kazuya break up, Kazuya appears at Youichi’s door at 3 in the morning with a duffel bag and a sheepish grin.
They have sex on Youichi’s couch twice before Kazuya can even unpack his stuff.
“We want different things,” he says as Youichi lights a cigarette stuck in between his teeth, a knitted blanket wrapped around his bare torso.
Youichi doesn’t dignify that statement with a response because he’s seen this song and dance before. He’s seen it too many times to count through the course of their post-high school lives. He knows how the story will go—they’ll live together for a while, have sex, get drunk, have sex, and two months later Kazuya will move back in with Eijun. It’s a relentless cycle, Youichi huffs out a cloud of smoke.
“You shouldn’t smoke,” says Kazuya because he’s a know-it-all who hates fun.
“Yeah, well,” Youichi replies through a disgruntled inhale, tapping the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray on his coffee table, “it’s a bad habit.”
Kazuya scoffs.
“Since when do you have bad habits?”
Youichi rolls his eyes, their legs are tangled together, pressed to the worn-out couch cushions, fraying at the edges.
“Of course I have bad habits, idiot. Smoking, drinking, biting my nails…” he eyes Kazuya, warily, “… among other things.”
They don’t speak again until morning.
(Well, that’s not entirely true. They speak again but only if you count soft grunts of each other’s name as they go for a third round).
Kazuya’s gone by the time Youichi wakes up the next morning, a painful crick in his neck from sleeping all night on the couch. He’s got Spring Training. It’s Youichi’s day off so he crawls off the couch with a yawn, feet padding against the hardwood floor as he heads to the bedroom to sleep some more but something catches his eye.
On the granite countertop of his kitchen sits a cooked omelet over rice, wrapped in saran wrap. There’s no note, no acknowledgement of the uncharacteristically kind deed. Just a plate, wrapped up in plastic.
Youichi bites back a grin.
“Your lungs are going to go to shit,” Kazuya chastises as Youichi runs shampoo-covered hands through the catcher’s scalp. The bathtub is too small for two fully-grown adult men but, by god, if they didn’t try to squeeze themselves in, anyway.
“Will you just drop it?” Youichi asks, tugging on a strand of Kazuya’s wet hair, half-playful, half-annoyed. “What the fuck do you care, anyway?”
“How are you gonna run your stupid cheetah run if you’re going to be panting and wheezing the whole time?” Kazuya continues and Youichi fights the urge to pinch Kazuya's side when the catcher sinks further into Youichi’s hold, ever-so-subtly leaning his head to rest against Youichi’s chest.
“I’m not,” answers Youichi, simply. “In case you didn’t know, asshole, I don’t play baseball anymore.”
Kazuya pauses, ponders this for a while because Miyuki Kazuya’s whole life is baseball— he lives it, breathes it— and he can’t fathom the idea of someone else not sharing that sentiment. Can’t understand why someone in his life, someone who once loved baseball too, isn’t devoting every second to the sport.
“Right,” he finally says. “I forgot. What is it you do, again?”
“At least try to remember, you good-for-nothing jackass!” Youichi shouts even though it’s well past midnight and he’s probably going to get a noise complaint (he always does, from the next door neighbor, during Eijun and Kazuya’s break-ups).
Youichi leans over to yank the hanging showerhead off the wall, turning on the spray to rinse the shampoo out of Kazuya’s chestnut colored hair before he sighs.
“I’m a painter.”
Kazuya laughs that shitty ‘I’m Miyuki Kazuya and I Know Everything’ laugh.
“What do you actually do?”
“I’ll kill you for that,” Youichi threatens because it’s true and he hates it when Kazuya is right. Freelance painting doesn’t pay much, after all, and no matter how many commissioned paintings of mountains and lakes and circles he pumps out, it’s never enough to pay for rent and cable and art supplies and cigarettes. “I’m a waiter.”
“Really?” Kazuya asks, surprised, to which Youichi resists the urge to point out how stupid that is because he’s the one who brought it up in the first place.
“Yeah,” Youichi says, instead, because fighting takes up too much energy and he still needs to wash his own hair. “I work at a little bistro.”
“Tell me the name.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I know you’re going to come and annoy me and probably tease me about the stupid fucking fancy uniform they make us wear. You’d never let me live it down.”
“If I guess will you tell me?”
“No.”
“Is it the one with the French name next to the station in Roppongi Hills?”
Youichi is quiet, Kazuya jolts underneath his touch.
“Aha! It is that one!”
“How did you even know, you bastard!?” Youichi scowls, to which Kazuya presses a soapy finger to his cheek.
“I think old age is getting to you Youichi. Memory loss, eh? ‘Cuz—“
“I’m only 28! We’re the same age!”
“— that place is right near the train I take to get to practice grounds.” A pause. “I think me and Eijun went there once.”
The mention of Kazuya’s ex-lover is enough to shut the conversation down. They get out of the tub, dry off then Youichi kisses Kazuya, wrapping a towel around the catcher’s neck before tugging at the ends to pull the catcher's face close.
Kazuya’s kisses taste like soap and Pocari Sweat drinks and guilt.
The very next night, half-way through his shift, Kazuya comes bursting through the doors of the restaurant with the most shit-eating, self-satisfied smirk plastered across his lips that Youichi almost screams.
He’s still holding his sports bag, slung over his shoulder, as he and an assortment of his teammates ask for a table for five.
They specifically request Youichi and Youichi vaguely wonders how badly it would hurt if he slams his head into the corner of the service station, knocking him out for good.
“Good evening, sirs, I will be helping you tonight,” Youichi manages to spit out between a forced grin, bowtie constricting the amount of oxygen in his throat. “Would you like me to read your tonight’s specials? There’s an excellent lobster bisque on the menu.”
“Oh?” Kazuya asks in faux-intrigue. He leans forward. “Tell me more about this bisque.”
Youichi must have the patience of a saint.
Sometime after they finish ordering, Kazuya gets up to use the bathroom (which is just a fancy way of saying he gets up to find Youichi and torment him, which is what he does best).
“What are you doing here?” Youichi hisses out, angrily, shoving his ordering notepad into the pocket of his apron.
“Team wanted to go out for dinner,” Kazuya shrugs. “They insisted I come so I thought ‘well if I’m being forced, I might as well have some fun.’”
“You’re a jackass, you know that?” Youichi jabs an angry finger onto Kazuya’s chest. “You’re the worst person I know. Why the fuck do I put up with you? This is exactly why I didn’t want to tell you where I worked because—“
They fuck in the restaurant bathroom; appetizers are a little late coming out but no one complains.
Two weeks after Kazuya showed up, they hit the first wall— grocery shopping.
“You’re out of milk,” Kazuya says on a Saturday as Youichi is mixing paint on his wooden palette.
“So buy more,” he answers, plainly.
“This isn’t my house,” Kazuya shoots back because being difficult is the only thing he knows how to be.
“Really?” Youichi replies, raising an eyebrow as he absentmindedly swirls his paintbrush, wrist moving in slow, circular motions. “Then stop using my water, my electricity, my WiFi, and my food.”
After 30 minutes of pointless bickering, they end up at the supermarket. Well, actually, the bickering doesn’t stop when they arrive.
They argue about everything in low, squabbling voices. Kazuya says organic eggs are better but Youichi lives on a painter-slash-waiter salary and can’t afford unnecessary bullshit like that. Kazuya likes skim milk, Youichi likes 1%. Kazuya likes raisin bran (“You’re so fucking disgusting,” Youichi pretends to gag in the cereal aisle) and Youichi likes frosted flakes (“Do you even know how much sugar is in that?” Kazuya asks).
Right when they’re passing checkout, Youichi wrestling their items into his disposable grocery bags, Kazuya suddenly falls silent. He’s staring, all too intently, at something on the candy shelf.
Youichi hums a questioning note, leaning over to see what's got the catcher so vexed.
“What’s up?”
“It’s nothing,” Kazuya answers, shaking himself out of a trance. There’s a second of silence before he continues, motioning to a chocolate bar.
“Eijun used to eat this a lot,” he says, face twisted in an indecipherable expression, “but they discontinued it a couple of years ago… I guess it’s back?”
Youichi falters for a second before letting out a contrite laugh, shoulder shaking.
“Hyaha! He always did have a sweet tooth.” he says because it’s easier than saying ‘just go back if you miss him so much.’
Because he does. Kazuya misses Eijun.
So does Youichi.
“Why did you decide to be a painter?” Kazuya asks one night as he tilts his head, knocking back a gulp of red wine that polishes off the glass. The TV plays in the background, some dumbass variety show that neither are paying attention to, drowning out the silence as it flickers and glows.
Youichi stands at his easel, half-finished canvas in front of him.
“I don’t know. Why are you a baseball player?”
It’s a dumb comparison and Youichi knows it but Kazuya humors him anyway. That’s their thing— they humor each other.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“It’s the same thing for me, then. Why wouldn’t I be?” Youichi shoots back. “Is that a good enough answer for you?”
“No,” says Kazuya. But then again, it never is.
Spring melts into the beginnings of Summer and two weeks become two months becomes three months and it’s the longest Kazuya has ever stayed at Youichi’s before.
The Japan Series kicks off with fervor and Kazuya is gone longer into the night. Youichi hates that he misses him when he’s not around. He’s growing attached to something that will inevitably leave and it disgusts him (it frightens him).
Still, despite that rapidly-approaching inevitable, every night Kazuya comes back.
“Come to my game tomorrow,” the catcher says, randomly after they finish having sex, riding out their high on Youichi’s bed, chests rising and falling in succession. It’s less of an offer and more of a demand.
“You’re just saying that ‘cuz I sucked your dick real good tonight,” Youichi scoffs.
“Let’s not flatter ourselves,” Kazuya replies and, even though it’s too dark to see his face, Youichi knows his eyes are flickering. “It was mediocre at best.”
“Asshole,” Youichi shoots back, leaning over to pinch Kazuya’s cheek. Kazuya laughs, rolling over so his body smushes Youichi’s down into the mattress.
Youichi cranes his neck upwards, connecting their lips and they stay like that for a while, bodies pressed up against each other, making out, limp and languid.
Youichi does come, in the end, sits in the stands, and watches all the frighteningly tactical calls Kazuya makes— he hasn’t lost his touch. Kazuya always knows how to put a person on edge and it’s no different on the field; even all these years later, there’s no one better at making a batter feel uncomfortable than Miyuki Kazuya.
He’s still sharp with his swing, too, and it makes Youichi annoyed because goddamnit, why does he have to be good at everything? Cooking, cleaning— Youichi’s apartment has never looked nicer, his bathroom is spick-and-span. And it’s no different with his bat.
At his third time up to the plate, he hits a clean homer that goes straight to the stands. When he rounds third base, for a split second, Youichi swears that Kazuya makes eye-contact with him, those terribly bright eyes boring dangerous holes in the former-shortstop’s chest.
Or, maybe, Kazuya’s just looking at the scoreboard.
“You came today,” Kazuya says in between kisses, later that night. They’re breathless and panting against each other, pressed up against the hallway wall that led from the bedroom to the living room. Youichi’s lips are swollen from where Kazuya sucked on them and bit them, dragging his tongue across Youichi’s.
“Sure did. You’re getting rusty,” Youichi lies as Kazuya thrusts his hips forward to meet Youichi’s, pushing them further into the wall. Youichi lets out an embarrassing whine, head falling forward to rest on Kazuya’s shoulder. Their skin is already warm but, when it meets, it burns.
“That homer in the 8th inning was for you,” Kazuya says, voice teasing as he sucks on a patch of skin just below Youichi’s jaw, sure to leave a mark.
“No, it wasn’t,” Youichi replies, simply. Kazuya can bullshit a lot of people but he can’t bullshit Youichi.
“No,” agrees Kazuya with a laugh that sends vibrations across their interlocked lips, a shudder creeps up Youichi’s spine, “it wasn’t.”
In a cruel twist of fate, it’s Eijun and Kazuya’s team that go up against each other in the finals. Youichi would’ve laughed at the irony if it didn’t make him so uncomfortable.
Youichi roots for Kazuya. Not because he wants Kazuya to win but because a part of him, the smallest part that Youichi hides in the depths of his unconscious, knows that if Eijun wins, Kazuya will go back to him, Because he’s Kazuya and he’d want to prove that he’s victorious in any way possible; he’s unexplainably cruel and senseless like that.
Youichi feels guilty about that, of course, and silently cheers when Eijun strikes out the 3rd, 4th, and 5th holes as the game plays on the TV that hangs above the bar in his restaurant.
Kazuya’s calls are ruthless that night and their team’s cleanup hits the deciding run at the bottom of the 9th.
“Congrats,” says Youichi as they pop a bottle of cheap, 24 hour market champagne. It’s bubbly and bitter in Youichi’s throat, the perfect buzz of enthrallment.
“Eh,” Kazuya waves his hand in dismissal. “You win 5 or so of these and it’s all the same.”
He’s a cocky bastard and Youichi wishes he could punch the shit out of the catcher but Kazuya’s eyes are gleaming with something Youichi can’t quite place and Youichi knows he’ll be ravished thoroughly later that night.
Kazuya comes home the next day and the next and the next. It’s the little victories that count.
“We should go to the park,” Kazuya says as he’s thumbing through an interior design magazine, sprawled out on Youichi’s couch. He’s wearing one of Youichi’s tattered old sweatshirts, stained with charcoal on the sleeves and paint on the front. “I could call up Tetsu-san and Tanba-san and we can see if you still know how to steal a base.”
Youichi’s eyebrows furrow as his fist clenches on the wooden handle of his paintbrush.
Kazuya only ever brings up baseball when Youichi’s painting.
“I can’t,” Youichi replies and he’s genuinely sad about it because it’s been a while since he’s seen the former captain and ace in person (their old team group chat is still surprisingly active, though. It’s funny how close living with someone for 3 years can bring you). “I’ve got this commission for 3 pieces for this lady in Kyoto. She wants something 'nature-y' for her bathroom.”
Kazuya flashes him a skeptical look.
“I thought you said there was no hard deadline.”
“There isn’t,” Youichi bites down on his lower lip, he refuses to meet Kazuya’s eyes, “but business has been kinda slow lately and I want to do this.”
“You do?” Kazuya asks like the sentiment is genuinely surprising despite the numerous times they’ve (albeit vaguely, glossing over it in brief, fleeting moments of conversation) talked about the subject.
“Yeah,” Youichi grits out in between clenched teeth, he slides the edge of his angled brush over the canvas, “I do.”
Several minutes of silence pass between the two of them and, when Youichi’s gaze circles back to Kazuya, he notices that the hem of his sweatshirt has hiked up around Kazuya's stomach, leaving the tan skin exposed.
Crossing over towards the couch, he leans down and blows a raspberry into Kazuya’s stomach, relishing in delighted giggles as the catcher flails and tumbles off the side, unceremoniously hitting the floor.
And, for just a second, he forgets Kazuya isn’t his and his alone. Just for a second; it’s a good second.
“I saw Eijun today,” Kazuya says, one night around the 4 month mark since his arrival.
The statement is so surprising, taking him off guard so suddenly, that it knocks all the wind out of Youichi’s lungs. A million questions race through his head at once but the most prevalent one is: then why are you still here?
“You did?” Youichi asks, his throat incredibly dry. His back is pressed to the mattress and he can’t focus on anything but the darkness that drowns out his bedroom and the midnight moonlight that spills, extremely faintly through the crack in his curtains.
“Yeah. We met for lunch. We hooked up at a hotel in Shibuya… can’t remember which one.”
There was silence for an excruciatingly long 30 seconds.
“Then we fought.”
Youichi pauses.
“About what?” he asks.
“Can’t remember,” says Kazuya. He rolls over, turning his back to Youichi as the duvet cover shifts around their bodies. They don’t talk for the rest of the night, let themselves wallow in the negative emotions that always come when they talk about anything besides useless bickering, what to eat for dinner, and what they’re going to do to each other when they get home.
It hurts a little, it always does, but what hurts more is the texts that Youichi wakes up to in the morning.
[09:37:21am] sawamura eijun: hey kuramochi senpai!
[09:37:45am] sawamura eijun: are you free to meet up for coffee today?
There was a time where Eijun and Youichi were close. Closer than friends, almost like brothers that wrestled and teased each other and shouted. There was a time where Eijun didn’t just represent the comings and goings of Youichi’s love life—the start and end of heartbreak—but, rather, he was a beacon of hope for not only Seidou but Youichi, too, no matter how stupid the sentiment was. Youichi would never admit it but Eijun always used to represent something blind and intangible like perseverance or positivity or something equally as dumb.
But now, like most things the catcher came into contact with, Kazuya ruined that.
No, Youichi thinks, bitterly as he walks through the station towards his and Eijun’s meeting place, I ruined it myself.
It’s too easy to blame it all on Kazuya when Youichi knows that, really, he can only blame himself for the gaping wedge between him and the rowdy pitcher.
It was a relentless cycle, once they graduated high school, Kazuya and Eijun’s relationship and somehow Youichi was caught in the middle. Whenever things got too hard, whenever it seemed too rough and painful, they’d break up and Kazuya would seek out Youichi for some reason unbeknownst to the former-shortstop.
They all were aware of it, no bad blood between Youichi and Eijun, but after years of it happening, the same pattern again and again, unceasingly, Youichi’s conscious, along with his resolve, whittled down to nothing.
He began to feel guilty, overwhelmingly so. For what? For everything.
For kissing Eijun’s ex-boyfriend, for fucking him as many times as he could to monopolize the situation before they got back together.
For wanting to be with Kazuya, for the empty feeling that came when he left.
For falling in love with someone who so clearly loved Eijun, who Eijun loved back.
And, eventually, the guilt Youichi felt ruined his and Eijun’s once-unbreakable bond. Sure, they saw each other at Seidou reunions, sent each other funny posts on instagram, and sent fleeting messages of false promises to hang out but it was never the same. And Youichi didn’t think it would ever go back.
“Kuramochi-senpai!” shouts out a voice and Eijun comes hurdling towards their meeting spot, a bright smile painted across his rosy lips. Except, as the pitcher gets closer, Youichi can make out draw circles under his eyes, lids red and puffy. He looks tired.
“What’s up, Sawamura?” greets Youichi, as casual as possible. “You know, we’re not in school anymore, idiot. You don’t have to call me senpai anymore.”
“Idiot?” grouses Eijun, playfully. “You’re still so harsh, senpai!” Then, after a brief second passes, he says, “What should I call you then?”
Youichi shrugs, shifting around on the balls of his heels. “You could… um, call me Youichi… if you want.”
Eijun is quiet, something rare for such a vivacious personality, loud and relentless.
“No,” he finally says and there’s something different in his voice, something sad. “That’s what Kazuya-san calls you. Senpai is fine, it reminds me of the good old days.”
Youichi, thrown by the mention of Kazuya, managed to force out a chuckle.
“You call Seidou the good old days?” he asks, steering the conversation away by any means necessary. “You’re pro now. You can play baseball all you want, plus you don’t have to live in a shitty, tiny room anymore.”
Eijun frowns, waving his arms around dramatically. “Hey! Don’t say that! I loved that room.”
Youichi scoffed before his eyes soften. Eijun’s gotten older, his hair is shorter than it used to be, bangs still unkempt and falling over gooey, golden eyes. But there is something different around him, his once-smooth edges are rough and Youichi thinks he knows why. No, he knows.
“Yeah,” agrees Youichi, softly. “I did, too.”
They walk from the station to a little cafe, Eijun talks animatedly about his stories from the pro. Tells him about how he and Chris signed onto the same team, their reunited battery. Of Furuya and Haruichi (Youichi doesn’t have the heart to tell the pitcher that he’s heard most of the stories from Haruichi, himself, during their weekly phone calls) and other Seidou alumni who decided to join the Japan Pro Baseball circuit.
Well, he doesn’t speak of everyone.
“I’m talking about me so much,” Eijun says, once they’ve sat down with their orders. A sugary frappuccino-type thing for Eijun and an iced coffee for Youichi, “What about you, Kuramochi-senpai? What are you doing? God, it feels like we haven’t talked in forever…”
“I, uh,” Youichi lets out a sigh, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m a waiter.”
Eijun’s eyebrows furrow.
“Really?”
A pause.
“No, I’m a painter.”
Eijun’s face brightens at that, golden eyes shining as he leans forward, excitedly.
“Well, why didn’t you just say that?! That’s awesome, Kuramochi-senpai! I had no idea you painted, you gotta show me your work sometime!”
And Youichi chuckles, takes a long sip of his coffee, and wonders why did I ever let this kid out of my life?
“You dumbass,” he mutters, through a grin.
Then, all at once, he remembers why because Eijun looks to the side, small smile faltering as his eyelashes flutter.
“Kazuya-san is staying with you right now, right?” he asks. Youichi’s prolonged silence tells the pitcher everything.
“He annoys me so much with that,” Eijun continues, voice rising in both anger and an emotion Youichi can’t quite place. “That bastard can’t just show up to people’s house! It’s been months. He’s like a freeloader or something, it's so rude! It’s not like he can’t just get his own place!”
“Yeah,” agrees Youichi, half-heartedly, “my water bill has been through the roof recently. He’s shitty for that, huh?”
“So shitty,” Eijun nods, emphatically, the grin returning for just a split-second. “We fight a lot, me and Kazuya-san. Sometimes I’m like ‘why can’t it go back to being good?’ then, other times, I’m like ‘was it ever good?’”
Youichi is shell-shocked. He wonders, vaguely, just how mature Eijun became in the years they didn’t see each other. He’s so aware, this person in front of Youichi.
“You idiot,” Youichi murmurs, his fist clenching around the plastic cup as perspiration from the heat of August drips down the side. “Of course it was good.”
“You think so?” A pause. “I love him Kuramochi-senpai,” he says and, to Youichi’s horror, there are tears pooling in his eyes. One slips down his cheek, then another, then another, and Youichi thinks the guilt might tear him in half. “I love him so much.”
“I know,” Youichi answers but it comes out garbled and unintelligible, there’s a giant lump in his throat. He clears it, “He loves you too.”
Eijun laughs through his sobs, bitter and resigned as his shoulders tremble, but still, there’s a sad smile painted across his lips.
“No, he doesn’t.”
“What?” Youichi blurts out, eyes widening in shock because how could Eijun think that? How could he think that when the only time Youichi’s ever seen that man display real, raw emotion was over the pitcher? When everything he did led back to Eijun? When his whole relationship with Youichi, down to the very foundation of what they represented, was built on Eijun?
“That’s bullshit,” Youichi spits out and it’s harsher than he intends it to be. Eijun is quiet.
“He doesn’t love me,” he repeats. “Not really, you know? He thinks he does, that stupid tanuki, but then again, when has Kazuya-san ever known what he wants?”
With that, the conversation ends but the remnants of it hang heavy in the air. They finish their coffees, Eijun gets an almond croissant and whines at Youichi to split it with him when he realizes he can’t finish it.
There’s a breeze tumbling through the air when they leave the cafe. Some girls run up to Eijun, asking for a picture and saying that they love the commercial he did for Pocky (to which Youichi rolls his eyes, good-naturedly. Lately Eijun’s face has been all over Japan on too many advertisements. He’s Japan’s Golden Boy).
“Does that ever get old?” Youichi asks as Eijun waves goodbye to them.
“What?” Eijun drawls out with a grin. “Of course not! They’re my fans! It’s part of the job, anyway. Chris-san says that half of being a public figure is the way you treat your supporters.”
They take the long way back to the train station, cut through the park. It’s hot, kids are running around on their summer break. Youichi remembers how, back in high school, summer meant base-running in the hellish heat and swinging your bat until your arms fell off.
Nostalgia rushes towards him, plowing over him in a wave.
It’s silent between Eijun and Youichi as they walk, footsteps hitting against the pavement until Eijun claps his hands together, suddenly and loudly, with a resolved look on his face.
“Okay!” he declares, puffing out his chest with gusto. Youichi gives him a confused look. “From this day forward, I’ve decided that Miyuki Kazuya will no longer dictate the things I do! I, the lowly Sawamura Eijun, am officially free! How does that sound, Kuramochi-senpai?”
Youichi’s eyes widen, a chuckle is ripped involuntarily from his stomach.
“Is that even possible?” he asks before he can even think about his words, the jarring weight that they carry.
“I don’t know,” Eijun replies, voice dropping softly, ”but we’ll just have to find out, I guess.”
When Eijun and Youichi arrive at the station, they’re going in opposite directions but neither makes a move to depart. Part of Youichi wonders if that he lets Eijun go on the next train, he’ll never see him again. If, without Kazuya, the already-very-thin line that still connects them will snap.
No, he dismisses himself, Eijun isn’t like that. And, not even a minute later, Eijun proves him right.
“This was fun, Senpai,” Eijun says, clutching the paper ticket in his palm. “We should do it again.”
“We should,” Youichi agrees. “Maybe on less depressing pretenses next time, though, how about that?”
Eijun laughs loudly, throws his head back.
“You got it!” Then, eyes widening, “Oh! I just thought of something! One of my teammates— our third baseman— his wife owns an art gallery! Maybe you can submit a piece to her or something!”
Youichi is taken off guard, heart stopping.
“Wait, shit, really?! God, t-that would be great!”
Eijun beams, pulling out the pen he keeps on him for autographs and scribbling out a number on one of the napkins from the cafe.
“Here’s her number. She’s really nice, don’t worry. She likes cats.” A pause. Eijun extends the napkin towards Youichi, voice quiet as he says, “I hope we can both be happy, Kuramochi-senpai. I think that we both deserve to be happy.”
Somehow, Youichi doesn’t think that last part was about the art gallery. Still, Youichi takes the napkin with a hand that won’t stop trembling, ever-so-slightly.
“I think so too, Bakamura,” he says, staring down at Eijun’s chicken scratch handwriting, a phone number scrawled out across the folds. “I’ll try my best.”
And, for a second, he really thinks it’s true.
Kazuya’s fingers are like magic as they travel down Youichi’s skin, fingertips exploring the dips and curves of Youichi’s bare, exposed back. When the pad of Kazuya’s thumb brushes past the jut of his spine, Youichi shivers.
“Stop moving,” demands Kazuya.
“Fuck you,” Youichi spits back.
“You wish,” Kazuya replies, cooly, which is stupid because Youichi did, in fact, fuck him literally 10 minutes prior. Youichi is about to point that very fact out to Kazuya, a smug expression already ready on his face, but the words die on his tongue as he can recognize the distinct sensation of tracing on his back. He's writing something.
Kazuya’s finger drags against Youichi’s skin, methodically, sculpting out a word that Youichi can’t place. Finally, once he finishes, Kazuya leans down to press a kiss to the nape of Youichi’s neck. His lips feel like fire.
“What did you write?” Youichi breathes out, reaching down to tangle their fingers together, intertwining his grip with Kazuya’s.
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Kazuya shoots back.
“You’re a dick, you know that?” replies Youichi but his words lack any real bite, speaking through a yawn as his eyelids growing heavier and heavier by the second. He’s dead on his feet when Kazuya drags him from where they were spooning on the couch towards the bedroom.
But he can’t fall asleep, no matter how tired he is.
No, he can’t fall asleep until he’s sure Kazuya has, first; the slight part in his lips, eyes shut tight as he breathes heavily. The catcher is dead to the world so Youichi, in a moment of impulsivity, gingerly picks up Kazuya’s limp palm.
Ever-so-carefully, Youichi uses his fingers to trace a word against Kazuya’s hand, taking deep care with every stroke as if it’s one of his paintings.
He writes the word love.
On the 5th month anniversary of Kazuya showing up at Youichi’s house, Youichi comes home to find Kazuya drunk.
He’s lying on the couch, limbs sprawled out, face smushed into one of the throw pillows, an empty bottle of wine sitting, as evidence, on the coffee table. His cheeks are flushed, skin burning red and ruddy.
When he sees Youichi appear in front of him, he practically throws himself at the former-shortstop. His skin is clammy when his hands reach up to cup Youichi’s cheek.
“Welcome home,” he slurs, linking his arms Youichi’s neck, dragging Youichi down towards the couch. “Why were you gone so late? T…thought you died something. Hah!”
“You’re drunk,” Youichi states the obvious.
“No shit,” Kazuya laughs like a maniac. “A real—“ he hiccups, “— genius we have over here, huh, folks?”
“Shut it, jackass,” snaps Youichi, picking up the empty bottle. Damn, he can’t help but think as he examines the label, and I was saving this too. “Why the fuck are you drunk? It’s 7pm on a Tuesday!”
“‘Cuz it’s fun!” Kazuya shouts before mashing their lips together in the most pathetic excuse for a kiss Youichi’s ever seen. Their lips collide, messily, and it tastes bitter and salty and suddenly, Youichi realizes that a single tear has dripped down Kazuya’s cheeks.
I’ve never seen him cry before, Youichi thinks as he pulls away, stares at Kazuya, incredulously. He doesn’t know this person. At least drunk Kazuya has the decency to look ashamed (or some semblance of the emotion), hanging his head.
“Eijun texted me,” he finally says before letting out a short bout of contrite laughter, in spite of himself. “He said that he’s done for good, he’s going on a date with someone else tonight.”
Youichi’s chest suddenly aches, every inhale he takes is painful.
“Oh,” is all Youichi can manage to say.
“I need a bath,” is Kazuya’s reply.
He stumbles to the bathroom, Youichi hot on his heels. Stripping Kazuya of his clothes, Youichi fills up the tub, silently. In fact, everything they do is silent as Kazuya lowers himself into the hot water.
It’s silent as Youichi rubs shampoo into Kazuya’s hair, silent as he rinses it out, suds of soap washing away. Silent as he watches Kazuya lather himself up with cocnut-scented body wash, silent as they pull the drain plug and listen to the water drain away.
It’s silent as Kazuya wraps himself in two towels— one for his body and one for his hair— and the two of them sit on the cold tile floor, making no move to leave the bathroom as they wait for Kazuya to sober up and stare at each other. Youichi pulls his knees towards his chest, absentmindedly, back pressed against the cabinet.
“You should be happy for him,” he finally says.
“I am,” Kazuya replies.
“That’s bullshit,” Youichi almost laughs.
“What’s so bullshit about that?” Kazuya replies. The tint in his cheeks is fading, the dullness returning to his once-glassy eyes. Youichi hates that he likes this Kazuya better— regular, pragmatic, know-it-all Kazuya, who always has something to say, who’s always the best at everything he does. He hates it, he hates it.
“We’ve never dated other people, you know?” Kazuya continues to speak but there’s no discernible emotion in his unwavering voice. “Ever since high school, the only person I’ve dated is Eijun.”
He knows he’s always been Eijun’s placeholder, he’s known it since the beginning (since the first time Kazuya ever kissed him and Youichi could still taste the faint remnants of Eijun’s strawberry chapstick), but that doesn’t stop the hurt from crashing over him in overwhelming waves.
Youichi’s chest is hollow when he says, “Then what about me?”
For the first time since they met, Youichi makes Kazuya look surprised, genuine shock written on his handsomely-drawn features. It’s quite an achievement to catch the ever-steady Kazuya off-guard, the only person who’s ever done it before is— unsurprisingly— Eijun.
But Youichi can’t revel in his victory, from his back pocket he pulls out his box of cigarettes. It’s smushed from sitting on the floor.
“Tell me, Kazuya,” he continues, taking out a cigarette, he holds it between his teeth. His words are muffled, as he speaks, “Did you ever love me? Even a little bit?”
The silence that follows his question is all too telling and an aching part of Youichi wishes he never asked.
“Why did you decide to be a painter?” Kazuya finally asks.
Hot, raw anger bubbles up in Youichi’s stomach, gnaws at his gut.
“No, fuck that—“
“Tell me why, Youichi. Tell me why you quit baseball.”
And finally, Youichi understands, just a little.
“I wanted something to be good at on my own,” Youichi answers. He flicks his thumb over his lighter, lighting up the cigarette stuck in his mouth. “Even if I don’t sell a single goddamn painting, even if I spend all my nights in that dumbass restaurant… I like my paintings. And I know that they’re good and maybe it’s just stupid fucking pride but I want to keep going and see just how good they’ll become. Baseball just happens to not be part of that equation.”
He exhales, shakily, billows of smoke dancing in front of his eyes.
“You were good at baseball too,” Kazuya says, perhaps it’s one final attempt, a final plea, for Youichi to join him. Or maybe he’s just an asshole.
“Was I?” Youichi raises an eyebrow, taking another drag. “That’s some high-ass praise coming from you.”
“Eh, well,” retorts Kazuya with a lopsided, shit-eating grin, “your batting could use some work.”
Yeah, thinks Youichi, just an asshole. But, hidden under the cover of the night, remembering Eijun’s words to him, he feels warm all over.
There’s silence, thick and heavy and uncomfortable, sitting between them for almost five minutes, and then it’s Kazuya’s turn to surprise him.
“I do love you, by the way,” Kazuya says and he refuses to make eye contact with Youichi. “I mean, as much as I’m capable of loving anyone. Which is never enough so I’m sorry about that.”
Youichi’s heart screams. Don’t you dare apologize, Youichi wants to say. All I’ve ever wanted was for you to love me, he wants to say, so don’t you dare apologize for it.
“What the hell are we doing, Kazuya?” is what Youichi finally asks. When he throws his head back, he forgets he’s pressed up against the cabinet so it hits the wood with a thud.
Kazuya doesn’t reply. Instead, he leans forward and kisses Youichi. The towel slides off his body and onto the floor and Youichi reaches his hands up to cup Kazuya’s jaw, kissing back with feverish passion.
Hands slide up underneath Youichi’s shirt, tugging at the fabric with one and the other exploring his skin, lightly raking over it with dull fingernails. Youichi groans into Kazuya’s mouth, the sound dying between their enclosed lips.
Once they break apart, breathless, Youichi leans down to run his mouth over Kazuya’s left pectoral and the catcher throws his head back with a shiver.
Kazuya pulls Youichi’s shirt off the former-shortstop quickly and their bodies are splayed out over the bathroom tiles, bare and exposed as they kiss and lose themselves into the dips and curves of each other.
For the first time ever, the sex is no longer soaked in guilt and shame. For the first time ever, Youichi doesn’t feel like Kazuya’s kisses and thrusts are meant for someone else. For the first time ever, it’s comfortable and Youichi basks in the afterglow.
But still, Youichi knows it’s not enough.
“We can’t keep doing this,” Youichi whispers against Kazuya’s collarbone. The damp towel is now thrown loosely over their bodies. It does little to keep them warm but they refuse to get up, the aftershocks of their orgasms doing the job that the towel doesn't. “We can’t keep doing this Kazuya, one day it’s going to fucking kill me, you know?”
Kazuya just hums in response, lolling his head to the side as Youichi laces their fingers together and squeezes his palm.
“You need to figure out your shit before you can love me back,” he tells Kazuya but he’s not angry, voice dropping to hushed whispers. “Got it?”
“‘Love you back?’” Kazuya repeats, raising an eyebrow as he turns to glance at Youichi. He’s always been good at dodging real conversations. A smug grin settles across his lips. “I don’t recall you ever saying you love me.”
“Idiot,” Youichi huffs. “Don’t make me say it.”
“Say it,” Kazuya insists. Self-assured bastard.
“No way in hell.”
“Say it.”
“Fine,” Youichi bends too easily. But, then again, he’s never had a strong will when it came to Kazuya. He takes a final shuddering sigh. “I love you.”
Kazuya’s breath hitches.
“Good.”
“Good.”
The next morning, Youichi wakes up on the bathroom floor. His back aches; Kazuya is gone.
His overnight bag isn’t where it usually sits, untouched, in the hallway. His grass-stained t-shirts and practice jerseys are gone from the clothing rack. The impossibly large collection of sticky notes with dicks drawn on them that Youichi sticks inside Kazuya’s practice bag every morning are gone.
And, most peculiar of all, Youichi’s paint-covered sweatshirt has mysteriously disappeared as well.
The next few months are a whirlwind. Thanks to Eijun, three of Youichi’s paintings get selected for the gallery and he spends most of his time perfecting his portfolio.
He goes to other gallery openings with his newfound connections. Sometimes he takes Haruichi, scarfs down those tiny hors d’oeuvres that every gallery even serves (no matter how many Youichi eats, he’s still hungry). He complains about how tight his bowtie is, and puts on a phony fake smile while shaking hands of socialites.
He gets two big commissions from a rich family, another gallery offer, and he quits his job at the bistro.
Sometimes when he’s painting in his apartment on a lazy Sunday and the sun streams through the window, hitting his easel at just the right angle and warming the whole room in a tingly glow, he can see Kazuya lounging on the couch, thumbing through his team’s scorebook. He can hear Kazuya’s talking about practice, his pitchers, what he wants to eat for dinner. His laugh, And, even if it's only an illusion, Youichi smiles, just a little.
A couple of weeks after the gallery opening, Youichi scrolls through his website’s commission. He’s sitting at the table, a glass of wine in one hand as he looks through the sea of requests.
Then, all at once, one catches his eye. It’s not like the rest, so distinctly him that it shocks him to the core. For a second, Youichi forgets how to breathe before letting out a cackling loud laugh, throwing his head back.
Can you paint me a baseball field?
And, in that moment, Youichi knows they’re going to be okay.