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If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. You hear nothing but truth from me.
— Jane Austen, Emma
Miyuki Kazuya hits a line drive to center field! Suzuki will score easily from third base. A standing RBI double from Miyuki puts the Giants on the board at the bottom of the second inning.
Kazuya jogs on over to second base with ease, nodding towards the dugout as his teammates cheer.
Coming into September, only a single game ahead of the Swallows kept the Giants in first place in the Central League. This series opener is bound to set the tone for the rest of the series and the last few weeks of the regular season.
Adding to the crosstown rivalry was Amahisa Kousei’s return after an elbow inflammation cut his season short the previous year. They had no room to be complacent today and had to take advantage whenever they could, and they’d done just that at the bottom of the second, drawing a leadoff walk and two straight hits to drive in a run.
The energy of the crowd is palpable throughout the stadium, but Kazuya remains unfazed as he shuffles to create a bigger lead from second base. He’d woken up today fully knowing what he wanted out of this game, and he was going to get it with the rest of his team.
He’d figured it all out with Eijun’s sleeping figure next to him this morning, drool pooling on the side of his face and onto his pillow. Kazuya stifles a laugh, remembering the pictures he’d taken on his phone before making breakfast for them both. He had set out a separate portion for Eijun and left a note next to his plate on the dining table:
This should be easy to eat with just your right hand, yeah? - Kazuya
Afternoon games meant waking up earlier, eating by himself, and seeing even less of Eijun than he already did. And they knew, from the moment they chose baseball and chose each other, that the two things they loved wouldn’t always make it easy for the other. The physical distance between them drove them closer to the heights they’d been chasing all their lives: Kazuya played ball across the country every day, and Eijun trained at the stadium of their dreams in Hanshin.
Now, Eijun’s back home in Kazuya’s apartment, within his reach, but at the price of putting Eijun’s dreams on hold. Kazuya could be selfish with Eijun if he wanted, but he could never wish to keep Eijun by his side—not like this, at least.
He’s never resented this sport. Even when his passion for the game earned fists to the face and drove cracks between him and his other teammates, he’d clung on to it. Gripped it as hard as he would the base of a bat to hit a ball out of the park. For all that went wrong off the field, everything went right on the diamond for him.
That hadn’t changed over the recent years. He wouldn’t have had a problem with that, not really. With Eijun in the picture, however, he’d grown greedy. Kazuya wanted so badly, for the first time in his life, for everything to fall into place, tradeoffs be damned.
Kazuya and the runner on third base are left stranded. Amahisa strikes out two batters and gets the easy out on first base to end the inning.
Kazuya fastens his guards for the next inning. His pulse races beneath his jersey, heartbeat quickening next to the cool steel of the ring on his necklace. Thousands of people could be chanting his name inside this ballpark right now, marching to the beat of the band, but nothing could send electricity shooting through him like the thought of Eijun watching him with undivided attention back home.
“Let’s get this done.”
Kazuya jogs to the field. When he squats behind home plate, knuckling the pocket of his glove, he imagines Eijun on the couch, left arm in a sling and his right hand fumbling with the remote.
Kazuya is right where he belongs. Eijun is months, years away from it.
“Better to strike out swinging than looking, Miyuki Kazuya!”
“Eijun, hold still if you don’t want to get nicked—”
Kazuya placed his free hand around the back of Eijun’s head, the other tentatively bringing the razor closer to Eijun’s chin. Ever the riot he was, Eijun kept fidgeting under Kazuya’s hold, talking about anything and everything with shaving cream smeared over his cheeks.
“I am well aware of my struggles at the plate.” Kazuya kept his eyes fixed on the stubborn patch of stubble by Eijun’s lower lip. With one careful swipe, it was gone. Kazuya tapped the razor on the sink, the short hairs splattering over the white porcelain. “But I’m not taking hitting advice from someone who hit .139 in his last 10 games prior to surgery—”
“BECAUSE THEY MADE ME BUNT ALL THE TIME!” Eijun argued at the top of his lungs, voice echoing throughout the bathroom. Kazuya thanked the years he’d spent training his reflexes for baseball, quickly withdrawing his hand away from Eijun’s face. If he hadn’t acted fast enough, he could have cut him right by the upper lip.
“Oi, I said stop moving around so much!” Kazuya put the razor down on the counter to sit Eijun down on the toilet seat, planting his hands firmly on his shoulders.
Eijun had a naturally leaner frame, but the breadth of his shoulders had grown over the past few months. They were wider than Kazuya’s hands remembered, muscles hardened and trained to carry the weight of expectation from his team.
Kazuya picked the razor up again, gentle but firm as he cradled Eijun’s face. The two fell silent then, with Kazuya shaving along the contours of Eijun’s jaw. Kazuya felt Eijun’s eyes tracing his movement, so round and wide and golden underneath the bathroom light. They’d both had their fair share of squaring off against powerhouse teams on the field, but nothing could stop Kazuya’s heart like the weighted stare of his boyfriend.
“You want to say something.” It wasn’t a question. Kazuya knew by creases in Eijun’s forehead and the downset curve of his lips that his thoughts had been running several hundred kilometers a minute in his head. Eijun pressed his lips together into a thin line, giving Kazuya more access to the hairs on his upper lip while tempering himself.
Kazuya finished up after a couple more minutes, wiping Eijun’s face down with a damp towel. He ran the razor underneath the faucet, fingers careful along the blade.
“It’s no—”
“It’s not nothing.”
Kazuya wasn’t going to let Eijun off easily. Not anymore. The last time he’d heard those words from Eijun, they were spoken through the speaker of his phone, with Eijun all the way in Kansai and Kazuya in Kanto. Nothing snowballed into a phone call one week later, then into a dreaded visit to the hospital. Nothing was anxious pacing outside an operating room. Nothing became a thick cast around Eijun’s arm, scratching at Kazuya’s side every night before they dozed off—a constant reminder of what was, in fact, anything but nothing.
“It’s just…” Eijun wiped the towel over the sides of his face, getting some of the cream Kazuya failed to wipe off. His gaze was distant but calculating. “Is it bothering you? Your… your swing? The things they’re saying about you?”
Kazuya shook his head, placing the razor back inside the glass with their toothbrushes to dry. “You know I couldn’t care less about what everyone else says about me.”
“But my first question.” Eijun reached out with his right hand, finger trailing along Kazuya’s knuckles. “You didn’t answer.”
Kazuya turned his head towards Eijun, lips parting, hesitating. By then, Eijun had fully curled his fingers around Kazuya’s, thumb kneading the back of his hand in earnest. Sighing, Kazuya brought Eijun’s hand to his lips, kissing his knuckles and fingertips one by one.
“Yes,” he finally said against the flesh of Eijun’s palm. “But that’s something I can figure out, so you don’t have to think about it too much.”
Eijun suddenly rose to his feet. Surprised, Kazuya’s hands loosened around Eijun’s. “No.”
“No?”
“I want to think about it. With you.” Eijun was negligibly shorter than Kazuya, but there were moments when Eijun’s presence towered over him, like his silhouette as he stood on that elevated mound above the rest of the fielders. He felt it now, with Eijun’s hand tightening around his. “I told you way back then when you were injured, right? That you didn’t have to carry your burdens by yourself. I… I know I’m in no place to say that after the stuff I pulled, but now I know what it feels like when I…” Kazuya stood there and waited, Eijun fumbling with their fingers. Then, Eijun peered up at Kazuya and told him, voice low and soft and on the verge of breaking. “You said you’d be playing baseball for the both of us, since I can’t right now. So let me do what I can on the bench.”
The look in Eijun’s eyes was all too familiar to Kazuya. In the moments when Kazuya grew cautious around batters, Eijun’s stare burned into him all the way from the mound, daring him to make a different call. Those pitches were the most electrifying to catch, loud and charged with all that Eijun wanted to show for his pitching.
He was standing there then, the dark circles around his eyes more prominent under the bathroom light, asking for a different sign.
“Okay,” Kazuya relented, hands cupping Eijun’s face. He smoothed his thumb over his cheekbones. Eijun closed his eyes, allowing himself to relax in Kazuya’s touch. “I didn’t know if you’d want to do… anything while on the bench. With everything that’s happened.”
Eijun flashed him a mischievous smile, as wide as he could muster, and Kazuya felt his cheeks lift beneath his palms. “Even when you’re off the field, you can still do something for the team! Should I call over the Big Boss to refresh you on the Seidou brand of baseball?!”
“No, there’s no need for that, silly.” Kazuya pulled him closer, kissing Eijun’s temple repeatedly while he wrapped his arms around Eijun’s waist. “But you’re right.”
They stood idly by the sink for what felt like hours, Eijun resting his head on Kazuya’s shoulder. They swayed and stepped from side to side every now and then. Kazuya wondered if this was what slow dancing was like, except without the music. He liked it enough that way, though, with just them and their breathing and the quiet inside the apartment, high above the busy streets of Tokyo.
“I wish we could play catch right now,” Eijun confessed, his left arm nestled between them. Kazuya ran his thumb along the straps of the sling.
“Me too.”
Both starting pitchers settle into a steady rhythm after a rocky second inning. Kimura, the Giants’ rookie starter, had followed Kazuya’s leads and earned himself five strikeouts through three innings. He’d been dominant up until the fourth inning, when the Swallows hit a home run off a hanging slider.
Kazuya calls for a timeout and heads to the mound. The infielders gather, covering their mouths with their gloves. They agree on a pitch-to-contact approach with the bottom of the Swallows’ order approaching and one out on the board.
“I trust you, Miyuki-san.” Kimura adjusts the fit of his cap, head lowered out of shame from the run he’d given up.
“Of course you should, rookie,” Kuramochi snickers, lightly toeing the back of Kimura’s shin. “Don’t get too worked up this early on. You can put us to work, y’know? My arm’s getting cold.”
“You are absolutely not allowed to commit a throwing error after having just said that.” Kazuya’s jab has the fielders laughing, the atmosphere lightening around them. Kimura smiles despite his nerves, shifting his grip on the baseball out of habit. Kazuya turns to him then, tapping his glove to the pitcher’s chest. “I’m relieved you trust your catcher, but leave some of that trust for your stuff, too. That’s how we’ll get out of this inning unscathed, alright?”
Kimura nods in earnest. They return to their positions on the field as the batter makes his way to the plate. They walk him after a full count, just as Kazuya planned. On Kimura’s first pitch to the next batter, they set up a double play for two easy outs.
Jogging to the dugout, Kazuya tells him, “They got complacent. We’ll try to go for more strikeouts in the next inning.” Kimura nods, settling down on the bench and putting his jacket on to keep his arm warmed up. Kazuya unfastens his guards with a practiced ease. “Your control’s gotten better, and that was one of the better ways I’ve seen a pitcher handle an earned run. You did good.”
Kuramochi, overhearing their conversation on his way to get his bat, chimes in, “In case you’re wondering, yes, he’s being genuine.”
Their teammates slap him on the back in agreement. Kimura smiles in acknowledgment. Kazuya only threads his fingers through his hair, brushing it back as he puts his helmet on for his at-bat.
“Now, to break that tie…” Kazuya mutters, tightening the straps of his batting gloves.
“It worked, what you told me,” Kimura pipes up.
“Falling back on the breaking balls?”
Kimura shakes his head, smile turning sheepish. “About trusting my stuff.”
Kazuya raises his brows in pleasant surprise before returning Kimura’s smile with his own. “Told you.” He makes a show of tipping his helmet to Kimura on his way up the dugout stairs. “Keep it up, rookie.” The smile remains on his face as he picks up on a faint Yes, sir!
Kazuya’s worked with quite the collection of pitchers, and he can’t help but think of how, even with their own varying abilities and personalities, they’re still shaped from the same mold, made of the same material. Possessing an ego necessitated by a sense of responsibility is what keeps them standing on that rubber plate, elevated above every other player on the field. The art of pitching is just about as delicate as the arms they used for it, every throw precisely numbered, measured against the standard of perfection.
To go from an ordinary arm to the ace of a rotation takes discipline and an unadulterated craze for baseball. To be the catcher standing on the other end of those pitches requires all of that, ten-fold. Pitchers, even when they don’t like to admit it out loud, are competitive enough to take every hit, run, or ball put into play personally. Even when it’s a catcher making the bad calls, the pitcher will always feel those hits and runs weighing down on their shoulders.
It’s their debt to pay back as much as it is Kazuya’s.
He swings his bat around to loosen his shoulders up, digging his cleats into the dirt. The crowd is on their feet, roaring to life as the band plays his walkup song. He bows to the umpire and the catcher before stepping into his stance in the batter’s box.
Kazuya takes a curveball on the outside corner for a strike, and Amahisa gets aggressive with a slider that breaks right into Kazuya’s knees. He reacts quickly enough, shuffling backward to avoid contact. With a 1-1 count, Kazuya tightens his grip on the bat and waits.
Amahisa throws a fastball next, and Kazuya sees it coming. Planting his foot into the ground, he swings. The wind carries the ball all the way into the signs hung over Tokyo Dome, just shy of crashing into the LED screen flashing HOME RUN!
They’re only barely halfway through the game with just a one-run lead, so Kazuya keeps his head low during his jog around the bases.
Would you look at that! You hit a home run off Kimura, and the catcher hits one right back! Tokyo Dome’s on fire! Let’s take a look at that again!
Miyuki hits for contact and power, but he hasn’t really been at his best this August. His last home run was back in July against the Dragons, so he’s been moved down from his usual 5-hole spot to the 7th. This is a crucial hit in such a close race against the Swallows—off Amahisa, no less.
That’s got to feel good. This might be the spark the Giants need to keep a rally going.
Kazuya finds Kimura waiting on deck with his bat, the helmet loose around his head. They bump fists before Kazuya walks back into the dugout, greeted by pats on the helmet and the back on his way to put his gear on for the next inning.
By the time it’s their turn to defend again, Kimura’s set to pitch with a 5-run lead, confidence back in his stride on his way to the mound.
Trust in his catcher. Trust in his stuff.
Kazuya had thought about what he might feel like on the day they’d play their retirement match at Seidou; what kind of feeling would wash over them as the sun cast shadows over the baseball grounds, their silhouettes broader, taller, sharper than when they’d lined up there for their first day of practice.
At the turn of the season, their time on the team came to an end, the rush and heat of a summer championship already behind them as the autumn breeze blew past.
While the rest of the seniors headed over to the cafeteria for dinner with the juniors, Kazuya stayed behind, standing by the concrete steps leading to the dorms. One random night in his first year, he’d picked out that spot to practice his swings away from the watchful eyes of his teammates. Eventually, he’d gone there every chance he could, whether it was to clear the fog in his mind by himself or to sort things out with his teammates. It felt strange to think he wouldn’t be making those rounds during the remainder of the school year; and that fixture in his routine, along with the hours practice used to fill, would soon have to be replaced by something else.
He felt the weight of his bat slung across his back, and he itched to take it out and take a couple more swings. Fifty, a hundred, two hundred—however many until he was satisfied. Until he could come to terms with how this space he’d carved out would no longer be his for the taking.
Upon hearing footsteps approaching, Kazuya craned his neck to see who was coming his way. He was surprised to see Sawamura carefully treading towards him, jersey opened and shoulder compress taut around his left arm. He’d gotten two years to get used to his more boisterous entrances: No knocks coming into his room, a morning greeting more effective than his own alarm clock (though not as efficient), and the words he’d call out to the fielders before he took the mound.
Oddly enough, Sawamura appeared to tiptoe around him without the usual intention and volume. Kazuya found it strange, but it was a welcome change of scenario. There had been glimpses of Sawamura like that before, in the days and hours leading up to key matches, thinking about how to best work around a lineup. Kazuya knew there was always something more to him, an intensity he still couldn’t quite grasp. For the riot that he was, Sawamura was most intriguing in those prolonged stretches of silence.
Sawamura stood in front of Kazuya, the wind bristling through already thick, unruly hair. Kazuya stayed, waiting for him to talk. Sawamura kept fidgeting with the hem of his jersey. His brows were pulled in at the center, and it was both concerning and amusing how his mouth was a near-perfect arch every time he was deciding on whether to speak his mind.
Sawamura opened his mouth, as if to speak, but quickly shut it again, casting sideways glances at the concrete. Kazuya sighed.
“Did you come here to start a staring contest, or was there something you actually wanted to tell me?” Kazuya took a few steps closer to Sawamura, hands in his pockets. He was beginning to feel the onset of the fall.
To his entertainment, Sawamura’s ears flushed pink. “I-I’m getting to that, alright?! Just give me time!”
“Retirement doesn’t mean you get to drop the formalities with me, Sawamura.”
“You didn’t correct me when I’d slip in the bullpen before! Why are you bringing that up this time?”
I’m not catching for you anymore. From where Kazuya stood, the light hit Sawamura just right, tanned skin painted golden by the sunset. His eyes were wide and bright, staring Kazuya down with an intensity that set Hanshin Koshien Stadium aflame that summer.
He’d been wondering, up until then, when the feeling of retirement would finally set in. There it was, in an open jersey, with dark, tousled hair and rough palms that told the story of every pitch he’d ever thrown—pitches Kazuya had asked for; pitches that landed in the dirt; pitches that landed so perfectly in Kazuya’s mitt, he’d held on to the ball longer than he’d needed.
He didn’t know what the future held. Didn’t know if he would ever be catching for Furuya nor Sawamura again, wearing different names and colors on the front of their jerseys at bigger ballparks. No one pitch could ever replicate what was theirs alone. Sawamura’s, especially, had pushed Kazuya to his limits as a catcher. They had so much life in them, so much possibility. And he willingly helped lay the groundwork knowing there would never be enough time to see them through.
Because that’s what he had to do as his catcher. As a catcher.
“M-Miyuki-senpai?” Sawamura waved a hand in front of him. “Are you tired from the game?”
“Tired? That was barely a scrimmage.” Kazuya nudged Sawamura’s hand away. “I’m retiring from high school baseball. I’m not in actual retirement. I’ve got plenty of game left.”
“Eh? Are you sure, jii-san? Want me to help you down the stairs?” Sawamura grinned, teasing.
“Kids think they’re all that these days.” Kazuya smiled right back, taking a seat at the top of the stairs. Sawamura settled next to him and propped his elbows on his lap. Kazuya bumped his knee to Sawamura’s to get his attention, and when he was sure he was listening, he asked, “So, what were you gonna talk about? Now’s a better time than any.”
“Oh, um.” Sawamura shifted a few inches away from him then. Kazuya felt the gap all the more with the cold creeping in, the sky trading its orange and pink for dark blue. “There was something I needed to tell you. And before you tell me to hurry up—”
“I won’t,” Kazuya chuckled, though he had been tempted with a little remark about running out of servings for dinner. “I’ll let you finish.”
Sawamura folded his arms over his chest, still avoiding Kazuya’s gaze. “Right. Anyway. I…” He chewed on his lower lip. His hands tightened around his biceps. Kazuya waited. Waited. Waited. “When I first came to Seidou, I was sure I wasn’t going to pitch for this team.” He clasped his hands together then, knuckles paling as he did. “But I pitched to you, struck out Azuma-senpai, and by the time I got home I didn’t know what to do. Well, it was more like—I knew what to do. I knew what I wanted to do. I think it just scared me, how much I wanted something like that.”
Sawamura rubbed the back of his neck. Kazuya kept his eyes fixed on the dorm rooftops.
“The point is, I ended up getting on that train and coming all the way from Nagano to here. And everyone likes to call me an idiot or whatever, and I’m aware of that! I am! I used to act before I could even think—”
“—you still do—”
“—and I said things that would get me in trouble—”
“—I can recall a few—”
“Miyuki Kazuya!” Kazuya’s name echoed into the evening, and he doubled over laughing at Sawamura. Sawamura elbowed Kazuya gently by the ribcage. “You are derailing me from making a very important point!”
Kazuya elbowed him back. “Not my fault you’re easily distracted by me.”
“As I was saying!” Sawamura cleared his throat, adding to the dramatics. Kazuya couldn’t help but chuckle under his breath again. “I don’t… I don’t think with my head. I go with my gut. And it’s gotten me into trouble before, but the decision to come here…” His voice softened, almost to a whisper. Kazuya caught himself leaning closer to catch every word that came next. “It was for the best. I can’t imagine where I’d be if I just stayed behind in Nagano with all my other friends.”
Kazuya took his sports glasses off and pocketed them. He nearly reached for his other glasses in his bag before remembering he had his contacts in. He never realized before how strange it would be not to have either of them framing his face. It felt too revealing. Too bare.
“I never did get to ask you what made you change your mind.” Kazuya dared to look at Sawamura then, and caught the little jump in his shoulders when he realized Kazuya wasn’t wearing any glasses. “Damn, got something to say about my face?”
“Y-Your glasses,” was all Sawamura could say.
“I’ll live, Sawamura,” Kazuya laughed, the sound hollow in the back of his throat. He drummed his fingertips along his knee. “So tell me, what enticed you to come to the reputable Seidou High School? I’m sure Rei-chan gave you a thorough tour of the facilities. And a scholarship’s hard to turn down—”
“You.”
The sound was so faint, Kazuya could have lived his whole life pretending not to have heard it. But he did. And he found himself wanting to hear it again.
Sawamura propped his arms back on his knees, hiding his face behind his folded arms. “I knew, after you caught for me, that I was going to Seidou. And I was going to throw to you, whatever I had to do.” A hush fell over them both. The cicadas that buzzed in the summer were nowhere to be found. “I… Ha, I went into shock! It’s pretty funny now that I think about it. Obviously I found more reasons to stay when I got here, and when I became a part of the team. But at the end of the day, I was…”
Kazuya thought back to the day he first caught for Sawamura. Rei told him that afternoon that she’d given him an offer, but coming to Seidou would ultimately boil down to his decision.
In only three pitches, Kazuya saw a thousand possibilities, spinning and landing right into his glove. Speed, control, break, a hundred different grips to try. If only Sawamura knew of the nights Kazuya spent restlessly tossing and turning, reaching, searching for those pitches in every ball he caught.
The kid could turn into a monster on the mound by the time he reached senior year, and Kazuya wouldn’t be there to witness him in all his glory. He’d hoped, selfishly, that if he wouldn’t be there for the end, he’d be the beginning, the middle.
“…whatever it was I wanted to do at Seidou—become the ace, become a better pitcher, win Koshien—I would always see you there doing it with me, and catching my pitches behind home plate. I thought, if we kept winning and winning and winning, I’d get more chances to pitch to you.” He smiled at Kazuya then, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But time’s run out, hasn’t it?”
And there they were, at the start of the end.
“Sawamura—”
“So I wanted to thank you, Miyuki-senpai. Because there’s so much more I got to do here because of you. I wouldn’t be wearing the ace number on my back if you didn’t catch for me that day. I don’t even know if I’d still be pitching!”
“Nonsense. You’d pitch until your arm fell off.”
“Not true! I have learned the importance of properly resting and caring for my pitching arm, thanks to you and Chris-senpai! Ha, ha! There’s that too!”
Kazuya shook his head. His heart raced beneath his shirt. He wondered if Sawamura could hear it in the silence settling over them as the moon rose. Kazuya stared at his open palms, clenching them into fists as they recalled the ghost of Sawamura’s pitches, perfectly fit to their every curve.
“It was… because of me?”
Sawamura’s jaw dropped, like he looked… offended. As if leaving behind his friends and family and everything he’d ever known after meeting Kazuya had been the most glaringly sensible thing to do.
“You taught me what it meant to really be in a battery!” He leaned closer, his left hand curling around Kazuya’s forearm. “A pitcher’s only as good as his catcher’s leads, and a catcher’s only as good as what his pitcher throws to his mitt. They can be good on their own, but together…”
“…they’re even better.”
When Sawamura was elated, it was usually written all over his face. But his smile was tempered then: The upward quirk of his lips, half-lidded eyes staring into the distance, into a place far beyond wherever either of them could fathom.
Sawamura turned to him, without the crinkled eyes and the toothy grin. He simply sat there, unblinking, unwavering. Nevertheless, Kazuya felt that same warmth, that same contentment from the touch of Sawamura’s palm.
“I’ll always be thankful for the past two years, Miyuki-senpai. It was truly a privilege to pitch to you! Several years down the line, I hope to bring honor to your name with my pitching—”
“That’s going a little overboard—”
“—and I will repay you in kind in the future!”
Kazuya was going to miss that. Between calling near-perfect games and playing catch and working on new pitches in the bullpen, there were those quieter moments that got lost in the whirlwind of baseball. But they were never forgotten, be it Sawamura’s welcome raids of his dorm room, their walks in the morning with Furuya’s occasional company, or nights he’d swing and let Sawamura watch.
He was going to miss a lot more than catching Sawamura’s pitches. He was going to miss his presence, his figure and warmth next to him. He was going to miss him.
“Can I ask for the favor now? The future seems too far away.”
“Ask and you shall receive, Cap!”
When he placed his hand above Sawamura’s on his forearm, he was scared Sawamura would retreat. Neither of them did. Instead, Kazuya felt Sawamura tighten his grasp, and so he did the same, finger tracing the prominent veins along the back of Sawamura’s hand.
“Spare some of that credit for your pitching. You said it yourself, didn’t you? A catcher’s only as good as what his pitcher throws to his mitt.”
Sawamura tilted his head. Kazuya’s gaze flit from his eyes down to his lips, all chapped from the cold and parted in surprise. He let himself linger. Wondered how they might taste.
“Maybe one day,” he continued, still lingering, wondering, “I’ll bring honor to your name with my catching.”
But honor, glory, and everything could wait. Because Kazuya was closing the gap between them and pressing his lips to Sawamura’s, and Sawamura’s fingers were running through Kazuya’s hair to bring him closer, closer, closer.
And together, they were better.
Miyuki Kazuya gets his third hit of the day with a single! He is 3-for-3 against Amahisa in this game. Coaching staff’s coming to the mound and… that’ll be it for Amahisa’s start today.
With that single, we are officially on a cycle watch. Miyuki has hit a double, home run, and a single in his three at-bats. If he gets a triple at his next at-bat, he’ll be the second player this season to hit for the cycle; the only other cycle we’ve seen this year is from Yuuki Tetsuya of the Rakuten Eagles, in their game against the SoftBank Hawks back in July 3.
This is an incredibly rare feat in the league—anywhere around the world, really. It would truly be something to marvel at.
Kazuya catches sight of his teammates hollering at him from the dugout. He can’t quite make out what they’re saying when it’s drowned out by the fans’ cheers. He’s unfastening his batting guards as Yamamoto, their first base coach, jogs up to him.
“How are you feeling?”
“Good. We finally got Amahisa to budge.” He hands the guards to the bat boy and secures his sliding mitt in place. Pocketing his glove, he lifts his head to meet Yamamoto’s eyes. “Took us five innings, but we got there.”
Yamamoto laughs in his face. “Not about that. About the cycle watch.”
Kazuya furrows his brows, hands on his hips. “The cycle…?”
“You’re a triple away.”
He looks around him, sees the crowd on their feet after his single. His teammates are coming to life in the dugout, Kuramochi shaking his head and mouthing Fucking showoff.
“Huh.” Kazuya rubs the back of his neck. “Wasn’t really thinking about it.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am, though.” Kazuya blinks, tapping his foot against the bag. “I’m only thinking about winning a ballgame, Yamamoto-san.”
“Well, are you thinking about it now?”
There’s an expectant look on Yamamoto’s face, one Kazuya can see mirrored by the faces in the stands. On any other day, he wouldn’t think much of it. He’s the type to keep his head down and grind it out at the plate, to take a game one inning at a time until the team gets the win. But today, on one of the warmer afternoons in September, Kazuya thinks he can let himself bask in the spectacle. Not for the thousands cheering him on nor the thousands more watching on their screens, but for one person in particular who’s rooting for him at home.
He thinks of rough knuckles. Of the early autumn breeze, and a boy painted gold. Of the chain around his neck, ring resting on the skin of his chest. Of lips and favors and beginnings.
“Sure. Yeah.”
It took every muscle in Kazuya’s body to keep his grip tight around his phone. On the other end of the line, Eijun’s voice was muted, the tremble of it audible through the crackle of the speakers. Kazuya leaned on the wall next to him, planting his forearm to keep himself supported. There was no guarantee, though, that he could last through this call standing on his two feet, with his knees buckled, on the verge of giving in.
“Why did you hide it from me, Eijun?”
Kazuya should have known. From the strained pauses in their conversations, the distant look in Eijun’s eyes. He was always teeming with stories of games and bullpen days every Sunday night, and he’d manage to fit hundreds of stories through whatever window of time they could find in their busy schedules.
If he’d been close to him, lying next to him on the nights he was clutching his arm in pain, would he have seen it? Or would the rustle of bedsheets at midnight fall on silent ears—fallen trees in a forest with no one to hear?
Kazuya imagined Eijun sitting at a hospital hallway, thumbing at an envelope in his lap with papers detailing the surgery he was due to get in a few days: Tommy John, after the Major League pitcher who’d first undergone the procedure in the seventies. He threw left, too.
“I-I don’t know. I was… I was scared, Kazuya. I didn’t want to let you down.”
Kazuya propped his back on the wall and balled his free hand inside his pocket. His nails, blunt and meticulously shaped, dug into the flesh of his palm, enough to sting. His heart was hammering beneath his shirt, and he grew painfully aware of the ring next to it.
“Even the most careful pitchers go through something like this,” he whispered into the phone. A futile attempt at consolation for Eijun, and for himself. “You can… you can do everything you can to prevent it, but it just happens sometimes. It’s not all on you, Eijun.”
He knew, better than anyone, what kind of pitcher Eijun was. Every hit he’d give up, every error a fielder would commit, he’d make up for in the next five, ten pitches, laying his soul bare on the mound for everyone to see. Their days playing for Seidou had already passed, but Kazuya could only think of that one pitch that sent Eijun spiraling into the darkest places his mind could bring him. And Kazuya was younger, tongue sharper and lips pressed tighter together, unable to get through to him—even when that hit-by-pitch haunted him, too, for nights on end, clawing at the number on his back. Eijun chose to take the fall, and Kazuya was right there with him, heaving as gravity swallowed him into the ground.
Kazuya had his eyes set on Eijun the whole time, but he’d been blinded. It was the same with Chris, quietly enduring the ache in his shoulder; with Furuya, and the battles he fought inside himself after facing the greatest there was in the nation.
Thinking ahead. Kazuya had trained himself all his life to think ahead, only to turn blind to what was right in front of him.
“Eijun. Are you still there?”
A beat. A sigh. Then, in a voice that sounded entirely different from the one Kazuya had come to know, “I feel like I’m falling behind again.”
“I’m right here, Eijun.” Kazuya’s glasses fogged up. He hastily pushed them upward, brushing his hair out of his face. He dug the heel of his palm into his eyes. They were wet. “You’re not falling behind. It’s not a race.”
Kazuya’s eyes dried after rapid blinks and a clenched jaw. He turned his head from side to side to check if any of his teammates or coaches had arrived at the clubhouse. The echo of his foot tapping against the floor told him he was the only one there, with his cold hands and dry throat and blurring vision.
“Kazuya?” That sounded more like Eijun, just then.
“Eijun.” And that sounded more like Kazuya.
He heard the tentative breaths Eijun was taking. “This is… on me.” Eijun’s voice cracked towards the end. Kazuya could feel the tears likely streaming down Eijun’s face as if they were his own. “I didn’t… I didn’t tell you as soon as I felt something was wrong.”
At the flip of a switch, Kazuya was peeling himself off the wall and pacing down the hall. “But if—”
“We’re partners.”
He stopped in his tracks.
Kazuya closed his eyes. Mouthed to himself. Partner. He’d thrown that word around carelessly when he first met Eijun, not fully aware of the weight it held nor the meaning it would carry years down the line for both of them. They learned, though, with every pitch, every devastating loss and all-consuming victory, what it truly meant to work together until their titles no longer mattered. There was no ego, no ace, no captain. There was only Eijun, his pitcher, and Kazuya, his catcher. A battery operating at full power.
It wasn’t that straightforward off the field. But that didn’t mean they weren’t going to try a thousand times harder.
“I took the brunt of this alone.” Eijun was resolute. His voice was clear on the line, fully taking shape. “I should have… I should have trusted you’d want to know as soon as you could.” Then it grew quiet again, hesitant. “It’s just… when I think of you, I see you going far. Going places. And I don’t want to hold you back.”
Kazuya’s shoulders shook. He laughed, without making a sound, just as how tears began to spill from the corners of his eyes.
“You’ve never held me back,” he said, careful with every word, hoping to carve it into the forefront of Eijun’s mind. So he wouldn’t ever forget. You made me better.
Eijun chuckled weakly. “It’ll take up to two years before I can pitch in a game again.”
Kazuya ran his hand down his face. He’d known that. He simply didn’t want to think about it, not when Eijun was all the way in Hyogo and Kazuya wasn’t there holding him through the storm of his mind. When Eijun spelled out the sobering truth for them like that, it materialized into the reality they both had to live with for the next several months.
“Pitchers come back even better after surgery. Stronger. Until then…” There he’d gone again, almost getting caught up in all the things he could’ve done and the things he couldn’t do. Kazuya held his head high, fixing his gaze straight ahead on the wall in front of him, “I’ll just have to play twice as much baseball for the both of us.”
“Don’t try too hard now, Miyuki Kazuya.”
They laughed together, and for those fleeting seconds, it felt like they were next to each other. Like the world hadn’t laid out the cruelest fate for Eijun. They laughed and laughed until they forgot why. It was all they could manage, with all the cities and train stops and games standing between them. He couldn’t take the next bullen train to cover the distance between them, nor could he fix up Eijun’s arm at the snap of his fingers. But he could give him that: Unabashed laughter, the sound of it loud enough to quiet all his storms and fallen trees.
“We’ll get through this, Eijun.”
Kazuya knew what had to be done.
“We will.”
Kazuya doesn’t remember what pitch comes his way at the 2-1 count. He only remembers seeing the ball pass right by his chest and keeping his elbows compact as he goes for the swing. The ball flies to right field, falling just on the edge of the foul line and rolling along fair territory. He doesn’t bother looking back; he’s borderline reckless on the base paths, the base coaches’ signals fading into the periphery as he breaks for third base. His helmet comes off halfway, carried by the wind.
On instinct, he springs from his feet, leaping for the bag with his arms outstretched. From the corner of his eye, he sees the ball land smack into the third baseman’s glove. He keeps his head low, clutching the bag as he heaves on the ground. He feels the glove on his back—a last-minute attempt to tag him out.
The umpire’s arms cut through the air, his silhouette stark in the afternoon sun.
Kazuya’s safe.
And he’s done it! On September 6, Miyuki Kazuya becomes the sixth player in the Yomiuri Giants’ franchise history to hit for the cycle, and only the second this season. He’s got a standing ovation from the crowd here at Tokyo Dome.
Kazuya’s still on all fours as he catches his breath. He’s not one for bat flips nor grand displays. A fist pumped into the air, a finger pointed towards the dugout—those usually suffice. But just for today, a roar rips through his chest as he pounds his fist against the bag, over and over and over.
Once he’s gathered his bearings, he’s back on his feet, picking his helmet up from the ground and standing on third base. His teammates shout his name from the dugout, and he sees the replay of his triple on the massive LED screen suspended above the fence at center field. He’d gotten lucky the right fielder fumbled the ball when he rounded second; otherwise, he could have been tagged out.
“Nothing was gonna stop you, huh?” Nishikawa, their third base coach, pats him on the shoulder. “I don’t think you even saw me wave you to third.”
“You’re right.” He laughs, high from the adrenaline.
Kazuya smooths his hand over his chest, stopping right where the ring sits beneath his undershirt. As the Swallows’ catcher calls for a timeout, he gently pulls at his necklace and takes the ring out. It glimmers in his palm, reflecting the light of the afternoon sun.
He closes his fist around it, bringing it to his lips. He then slips the ring back beneath his shirt, leading from third base and preparing to run home.
The Giants win, putting up nine runs against the Swallows’ two. Kazuya enters the press room in a fresh shirt and sweats, his necklace exposed. Once he takes his seat, he falls into his routine interviews easily.
“Miyuki, congratulations on hitting for the cycle. It’s an amazing accomplishment. What was working so well for you at the plate today?”
“We’ve faced Amahisa’s pitches for a while now, and he was coming back from an injury. He’s still getting settled back into the rotation, so we decided to work with whatever openings we could find. But he was great today.”
Another journalist in the far right corner of the room gets his cue. “Your numbers in August weren’t on par with your usual, although you did mention before that you were making adjustments. How crucial was it to get those hits after your performance in the past month?”
Kazuya shrugs. “It feels good to hit, slump or no slump.” He punctuates the answer with a small smile, and it sends cameras snapping all around him.
Someone from the front row of seats pipes up. “How important is it to ride on the momentum of today’s win into the last few games of the regular season?”
“I don’t believe in momentum.” Kazuya absentmindedly toys with the chain of his necklace. “I believe in putting in the work and staying consistent. That’s what I’m focusing on for this series, and for any other game, really.” He nods to another reporter.
“What was it about tonight that had things fall into place? I’m sure the familiarity with Amahisa’s pitches helped, but was there anything else going for you mechanically or…?”
Kazuya tilts his head. He laces his fingers together and places them on the table.
“We’ve been playing good baseball all these years.” He knows Eijun’s watching, eyes boring into the television screen back in their apartment. Kazuya rubs his palms together as he continues, “Kimura had an amazing outing, and we put up runs across the board. I may have hit for the cycle, but this team won the game. All of us were playing at our best today. I just wanted to contribute.”
“After you hit that triple, you roared and pounded on the bag. It was pretty surprising, considering you’re more of a stoic when you play.”
“Well.” It wasn’t just for him. Eijun may have been rubbing off on him now that they were around each other more often. His mouth twitches with a smile. “Like I said, it feels good to hit.” His attention strays from the interview and the flashing cameras to that phone call, weeks ago, with old promises kept and new ones made. This is Kazuya holding up his end of the deal, and then some.
“How do you plan on celebrating?”
Kazuya shrugs, playing the question off as nonchalantly as he can even though he can feel his cheeks straining from the smile on his face. He searches for a camera in the swarm of press. He decides on the largest one, set up at the back of the room, at the very center aisle, and stares straight into its lens.
“I’m looking forward to having dinner at home and going to bed early,” he deadpans, much to the reporters’ amusement.
He bows to the journalists after his interview and is ushered into the locker room, where his teammates await with cans of beer. Kazuya stands helpless in the shower of drinks, shaking his head as Kuramochi and Kimura double down by pouring two cans each all over him. They all take their time to clap him on the back and congratulate him, insisting that they pose for the photographers every time. Kazuya swears it’s the most pictures he’s had taken of him in a single day. It’s slightly off-putting when he reeks of beer and his hair’s thick with foam, but he lets them have their fun.
“Go on,” Kuramochi pushes him in the direction of the showers once the celebration wraps up. “I know you’re dying to get home.” With a knowing grin, he elbows Kazuya on his side and disappears into the hallway.
After Kazuya showers and gets changed for the second time, the clubhouse staff hand him the baseball he tripled off of, encased in a glass box. The case is labelled with today’s date, September 6, along with his name. Miyuki Kazuya: Cycle (2B, HR, 1B, 3B). He cradles the box in his hands as he walks to the parking lot. He gets inside his car and makes quick work of securing the box inside the center console, taking spare towels from his gym bag to cushion the box from all sides.
On the drive back to the apartment, his phone rings through the car speakers. He’s already grinning, bracing his ears as he takes the call.
“Miyuki! Kazuya!”
“Don’t yell at me over the phone, idiot. You’re on speaker in the car.” In spite of himself, Kazuya’s face heats up at the sound of Eijun’s voice. The fatigue from today’s starting to build up, the adrenaline from the game fading fast; but a single word from Eijun is enough to keep Kazuya’s senses on their toes.
“You expect me not to—after you—after you—the slump, the—!”
“After I what?” Kazuya teases, but he knows from the faint sniffling on the other end of the line that Eijun’s emotions have gotten the best of him.
Kazuya leans back into the driver’s seat, the stoplight turning red. He props an elbow on the center console, reminded of the baseball encased in a glass box. It may bear his name on the label, but it belongs to them both.
“You’re… you’re really something, Kazuya.”
His heart is so, so full. He’d never imagined in his life that he’d feel anything as visceral as he did when he’d coax out the perfect strikeout or hit a game-winning home run. But Eijun makes him feel the thrill of all those things combined, and an entirely different world unravels before Kazuya with every minute, every touch, every pitch. At the heart of baseball stands Eijun—its beginning, middle, and end. And Kazuya wholeheartedly, irrevocably wants to play for the rest of his life.
“You’re something yourself, Eijun.”
The traffic light turns green. Kazuya presses his foot into the gas pedal, steering into the road leading home.
“Happy anniversary.”