Chapter Text
Koshien. The air is heavy, humidity making it harder to breathe than it already is. Adrenaline and the nerves making its residence at the pit of their stomachs, lodging at the back of their throats and restricting their airflow yet it’s all marginal. The stifling heat, the synergy between the players on their team raising the temperature on the field to insurmountable heights.
Every play, every move strategically planned out with all kinds of possible outcomes, and then moves pertaining to those in a never ending cycle mapped out in Kazuya’s head. The rush with each passing second makes their shirts cling more to every inch of their bodies.
Perspiration running down their foreheads, drenching the back of their shirts, gliding across the skin protecting their heavy bones. Each inning catching up with their bodies, and the fatigue that had been put on the back burner is now steadily trickling it’s way forward.
The human body is fallible. It’s prone to enervation and it goes without saying that it is much easier to let the weariness take over their actions, their hands and legs working on auto-pilot and sheer instinct, no matter how sharp the mind remains, when they’ve been at this for hours.
It isn’t the truth to say that it doesn’t affect them, affect him. No one is an exception to the limitations of the skin they inhabit nor the strangling heat of the Koshien stadium. The sweat drops make their way to the edge of Kazuya’s eyebrow, trailing all the way down his face only to pause at his jaw, waiting, waiting before they slide down his neck.
None of it matters. Not when it’s the last inning. Not when it’s their turn and they’re one out away from their dream, smeared in dirt and sweat from hours of practice day in and day out, muscles straining and heaving for breath just to make this one moment possible.
They are here, standing at this stage that they’ve fought tooth and nail for, matches grueling and heart wrenching in the way they stood as a reminder of the accumulated sand at the bottom of the hourglass, hard earned wins that even seemed near impossible at times but never truly.
They’ve never known impossible before and they’re not going to start now.
It might have taken everything and more out of them to reach this platform but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough till the last ball is pitched, till the final inning is over and even after that is done.
It will never be enough for them who have baseball running through their veins, tumbling and falling yet never stopping even once to catch their breath.
Kazuya knows that no one on his team is truly satisfied with their baseball yet. Not till it’s done.
Not till there are more plays to improve on, weaknesses to transform into undeniable strengths, not till they can still feel the weight of the ball in their palms. The grit lining its seams an enthralling contrast to the white, and the solid pressure of it in their hands that provides a sense of relief, of peace like no other with its familiarity and the age long presence it has had in their lives.
None of them are letting their guards down. The game isn’t over till it is and all it takes is just one ball to turn the tables in this sport that has given him life like nothing else. The sport that has made him into the person that he is now, the one that has been there with him and has never let go of its hold on him. He doesn’t want to either.
Baseball is all he’s known with certainty his entire life. There are variables a person can’t account for when it comes to things, people they meet and form relations with, those that pass by without a second thought and the ones that make hefty promises and never fulfil them whether by choices made by them or made for them.
Kazuya has control over the aspects of the games he plays. He knows each gear that makes his team run and has to think of the calls, pitch sequences that will help them to the most of his abilities and in turn trusting them to have his back as well.
He’s not alone on the field. Right here, in the dugout, in the stands, are the faces that he’s known for three years, a few less than that but not any meaningless and he wants to play with them for as long as he can.
More innings, more balls, till it's no longer possible and then make it happen anyway.
He knows. He knows because denying it to himself is an exercise in futility so he’s not even going to bother making that effort.
He knows that his teammates matter to him more than he thought they would, but the one that he never wants to let out of his sight on the field, and off of it, his mind hauls the thought up which he immediately pushes back down, is the one standing right in front of him.
The mere 18.4 metres have never felt so close yet so far away at the same time.
Kazuya feels it, the stare scalding his entire body the more he acknowledges it’s there. The intensity that reverberates through his aching bones, lighting them on fire in a way nothing else ever could. He knows that’s what happens when you orbit around a star.
He looks at Sawamura, the fierce, sharp focus in his blazing golden eyes, his eyebrows slightly furrowed in concentration and thinks that sometimes, referring to Sawamura as the sun doesn’t feel like it’s enough, even if it’s just in his mind.
It doesn’t encompass his entire self, his exuberant personality, larger than life presence that demands attention and keeps it, doesn’t let it drift to anyone or anything else with everyone around him trapped in the warmth, the life that he brings with him and no intentions of leaving it.
It doesn’t take in the way he defies all expectations and dwarfs those around him in his sheer unadulterated sincerity.
His shoulders carry the weight of the team and Kazuya knows how heavy that weight can be. Has experienced and shouldered that pressure himself. They both have stumbled their way through uncharted waters and made it through. Not together, atleast not directly because they would never know how exactly the weight of the others’ feels like but they’re here.
He’s learned many things in the past few years, many more about himself. He knows that this is not just a milestone, not with how much he has experienced with this team, his team.
He sees Sawamura with all his passion, his respect towards people who deserve it, seniors and juniors alike, his utter lack of respect towards Kazuya himself with the way he addresses him and how Kazuya never seems to mind it though he probably should.
Kazuya has never been the one to follow general protocol and has hardly ever abided by the boundaries put by society itself. He has always made his own rules, since as far as he can remember, and has defied his own personal goals and expectations, striving to be better with every step he takes.
More, reaching higher.
He knows that Sawamura is the same, maybe not in the same way but similar enough for it to count.
He knows that as a person he’d never amount to even half of what Sawamura is and will be in the future. He’ll grow as a person, as a player and will reach bounds that no one else has before and he’ll shatter them to move to even greater heights.
Kazuya remembers the scrawny, surly middle schooler who went up against a person twice his size because he was being disrespectful towards his teammate that Sawamura himself didn’t know, having never even met before.
The one whose shoulder Kazuya had wrapped an arm around and called partner, not knowing that that word would become so much more than what he had intended for it to, that the weight it’d hold would press onto his ribcage making his chest constrict every time he’d allow himself those fleeting moments.
He stares at those shoulders now, held high and straight, head tilted up and eyes peering down at the batter. His aura resembles a parhelion and Kazuya feels pride so strong it almost makes him stagger, disorienting his senses a little.
Fortunately he doesn’t because he, they, can’t afford to falter now in any way. Not when they are just one out away from seizing their dream and prevailing, mounting the platform that is Koshien to see the view from the top.
He assesses the batter standing in the batter’s box from his crouched position. Komadai Fujimaki’s fifth hole and catcher, Enjou Renji.
He mentally pulls up the stats he had previously memorised on him as a batter. He’s a national level catcher in a battery with Hongou Masamune, a monster pitcher who’s well deserving of his reputation as one of Japan's strongest pitchers.
Enjou’s pitch calling crowned his team as the national champions a year ago. Their strong battery has held most of the other teams relatively hitless in this tournament.
Enjou definitely has a keen eye and an interesting way of calling for pitches that make use of his team’s powerful pitchers in the most efficient way.
He recalls the numbers on the scoreboard, not having to look at it to know the digits.
They have a measly lead after far too many innings, enough that he knows that when the adrenaline of the match washes away and the exhaustion settles in, his knees would hurt a lot more than they usually do.
It was by no means an easy lead, one that they snatched away from the other team which can just as easily be plucked from their hands by a double RBI from this guy.
It simply isn’t on the table. Human bodies are fallible in the way that they involuntarily give into exhaustion no matter how much they may not want to. Chances are few and far in between and no one knows which side it would land on if this match moves on into the next inning.
They can’t pass up on trying their damn hardest to seize every opportunity and make it their own and they definitely can’t afford to leave it up to probability.
Walking the batter is an option, not a preferable one seeing as how the lower half of their lineup isn’t to scoff at and they could also send in their pinch hitters as well. However, it remains one with the runner on second and the first base open.
Kazuya turns his eyes towards the dugout at coach Kataoka who gestures with his hands that it’s alright if they cede a run and the game is tied but to make sure they remain on the aggressive side and not be too careful.
Giving up a run here leaves way too many things to chance. There is no guarantee how the team would fare and if they make it all the way to the end of the extra innings with the game still tied, they’d have to have a rematch the next day.
Sawamura’s pitches are holding up fine. They have power to them, his control over the ball is ridiculously high and he’s throwing his pitching arm all the way but there’s no way of knowing how things will unfold if they’d have a rematch.
Kazuya nods his head at the coach, his mind rapidly shuffling through the different possibilities of the play in the little time they have to decide on a pitch to call.
He looks back at Sawamura and his eyes widen at the inferno in his eyes, making them gleam even more. The light catching and reflecting off of them have a searing effect and Kazuya is no exception.
He feels his lips curl up into a smirk. No words are needed. They know exactly what the other has in mind. He can practically see it radiating off of Sawamura in waves.
Neither of them plan on giving up even a single run.
He gestures with his hand for the pitch and readies his mitt by positioning it to the outside corner of the strike zone. Kazuya notices the considerable lead of the runner on second and readies himself in case an attempt to steal is made.
Sawamura gets in the set position before he swerves and throws a jump turn to second base. Kominato receives it but the runner makes it back just in time. However his lead seems to be much less that what it was prior to the pickoff so it worked in a way.
Having kept the runner in check, Sawamura winds his right leg up, the glove blocking the view of the ball from the batter held high before he whips his pitching arm down.
The impeccable control of the pitch is a testament to Sawamura’s hard work and the growth he has undergone in the past few months. His development has never been a linear curve, it is exponential in a way that’s intimidating.
Kazuya registers the solid weight of the ball in his mitt, the batter left standing as he must have predictably assumed that it would be a ball outside the strike zone and hadn’t expected it to break into the outside portion of the plate.
He hears the umpire standing behind him loudly declare, “Strike!”
The announcers stutter through their surprise at the pitch, “A breaking ball as the first pitch! The batter was unable to even swing at it!”
Number 7, the Improved Cutter.
Nice pitch, Kazuya smirks and throws the ball back to Sawamura who swiftly receives it. The look of absolute concentration never leaves his features but Kazuya can almost hear the mental ‘yosh’ playing in his head.
Kazuya knows that he’d have a ridiculously fond smile on his face if this were any other time, place and situation no matter how much he trains his facial features to keep them in check.
He crouches down behind the home plate again and decides to call for low and away pitch. The batter might be expecting an inside pitch so a pitch on a similar course as the previous one should rattle him a little.
He signals to Sawamura and waits for him to pitch it right into his mitt. Enjou swings late yet manages to make contact.
“Foul!”
Alright, two strikes. Just one more.
His mind vaguely registers the cheers from their dugout, the hollering of encouragement and the wave of Sawamura’s name and ‘one out!’ from their fielders, the ‘you’re making contact!’ and ‘you can do this!’ from the opponent’s dugout before he drowns their voices out in favor of assessing Sawamura’s mental state.
His demeanor has a cold intensity to it which would manage to intimidate the cleanup of the strongest lineup, his focus sharp and clear. Kazuya runs his eyes over the rest of him, taking note of how he looks slightly tense but his form isn’t too stiff and he’s pitching freely.
Their eyes meet each other’s and Kazuya silently asks if Sawamura would like a time-out, if only to relax a little.
Maybe he should call for one, Kazuya thinks right before Sawamura shakes his head.
He feels goosebumps line up the entirety of his arms from the look he’s met with and smirks at the pitcher.
Sawamura’s in the zone. A time-out might kill the momentum he has right now.
If his next pitch is shaky in its flight path or if his form is too stiff, he’ll call for it.
He decides to forgo the time-out for now and positions his mitt to the inside, signalling for the revised splitter. Number 9. He glances at Enjou, This should make him hit a grounder.
Enjou raises his bat, preparing for the next pitch as Sawamura throws right at his mitt. Enjou swings but rather than hitting a grounder, he sends the ball flying. It’s just before the first baseline, thankfully in the foul territory.
Sawamura’s throwing his arm all the way down and his control is still fine but he does look more stiff.
Kazuya asks the umpire for a time-out right after they announce “Foul!” and makes his way to the mound.
He slows down his jog as he reaches the mound till he and Sawamura have half a metre space left between them. They raise their gloves to their mouths yet he can see the half grin on Sawamura’s face and he knows without having to look that he has a similar one on his own.
“Your shoulder looks relaxed and your pitches are strong. You just need to keep pitching the way you have till now and we’ll be fine.”
The half grin transforms into a full, much more feral one, “I know what to do, Cap.” The words ‘I just need to throw right into your mitt’ left unsaid yet they are so loud neither of them have to speak them aloud at all.
He taps his mitt against Sawamura’s chest, a gesture so normal, so familiar, it’s practically a tradition at this point and feels the warmth radiate through his hand. He knows it’s impossible through the many layers in between them but the heady feeling he gets from this minute contact nearly makes him believe otherwise.
There is a strange look in Sawamura’s eyes. It’s not something that he’s seen before, atleast not with the pitcher’s full focus directly on him. He can’t name the emotion, not sure how to interpret it but he wants to do something. He doesn’t know what it is yet but he wants to do something nonetheless.
“Let’s do this, partner. How we’ve always done it.” He says lowly, matching it with a smirk, yet it’s loud enough for the minimal space between them.
He raises his mitt, waiting. The pitcher pauses for a moment, most probably registering the words in his head before he responds in kind by tapping his glove against it.
Kazuya feels his ribcage shake at the downright predatory grin he gets in return from Sawamura. His intentions of not passing up a single run are written all over his face. He might as well take a marker and write it in bold letters on his forehead.
Sawamura Eijun on the mound is a sight like no other. In moments like these, having this pitcher throw some of the most exciting pitches Kazuya has ever seen in his life into his mitt makes him feel so privileged. Makes the words that he spoke ring in his head like a never ending echo.
How we’ve always done it.
It is so much fun catching for Sawamura. Nothing is quite the same as having one of his pitches resonate through his mitt, sending shockwaves through his arm. Having been there to see his progress, helping him make the pitches he has his own, helping him with the Numbers.
Kazuya feels so helpless in his presence. He wants nothing more than to have Sawamura pitch to him for as long as he can.
He feels a jolt in his chest at the thought that ‘Maybe this is it.’ and he halts that thought before it makes him feel any more than he can afford at present.
Kazuya jogs back to the home plate and gets in position and with the renewed distance between him and Sawamura, he signals for the pitch and has just one thing on his mind.
Even if this is it, it’ll be the best pitch from Sawamura he’ll be catching. Probably from anyone.
The air at Koshien is heavy. Heavy from the humidity, the dreams of thousands who didn’t make it there and those who did, the members on the field and those in the dugouts and the stands, the tens of thousands of people rooting for their teams, the national televisions recording their movements in history for millions that aren’t in the stadium right now.
Koshien air is electrifying. The expanse of the sky above them invokes a feeling of freedom that makes the air they breathe as easy as difficult.
Kazuya wonders if the air at the top feels any different, if he’d be as breathless as he feels in this moment or if it'd be like taking that first breath of fresh air after nearly drowning and breaking through heavy waters.
He sees Sawamura’s expression, him blowing the remaining rosin powder off of his hands, him winding his leg up to heights that make Kazuya feel unsure at its possibility in the first place, his right arm stretched out in front of him posing as a wall huge enough that it obscures the view of their opponents and doesn't let them even peek at what lies beyond, and Kazuya feels alive.
The pitch that’s your signature, your moving fastball. Throw it with all your might.
“Steal!” Kazuya hears Kominato yell and readies himself to get the batter out at home plate if it comes down to it. He eyes the runner whose start allowed him to reach halfway to third base.
He’ll handle the runner. Just focus on the batter.
Kazuya knows it as soon as the pitch is in his view, rapidly making its way closer that Sawamura really had thrown it resolutely, drenching it with every bit of power, strength and hope that he carries.
It should be impossible, with the many innings that they’ve been playing and the pressure of the team plastered on his shoulders. The kind he carries like it’s second skin, its presence a reminder of the expectations the team has for him.
He shoulders it with all his might and throws the ball in the exact same way.
Sawamura Eijun’s vocabulary is extensive yet impossible has never been a part of it. He has never learned how to give up and it’s stark that he doesn’t plan on ever doing it.
The pitch is roaring as it sails towards his mitt, alive. The batter waits till the last possible moment and swings.
The sound of the bat hitting the ball resounds in his ears and with his heart in his throat, Kazuya watches the flight path of the ball and feels immeasurable relief at seeing it being held firmly in Kuramochi's glove who had leaped to grab it out of mid-air. He sees that feral grin from all the way here and it hits him in that moment that they did it.
They did it.
Multiple things happen at once. The umpire thunderously announces, “Strike! Batter out!”, their voice nearly drowned out by that made by the spectators who cheer loud enough to make his ears ring.
He hardly registers anything that the announcers are saying though he vaguely hears a ‘game set!’.
His mind is just white noise, his attention solely on the one person who stands 18.4 metres away from him.
Kazuya looks at Sawamura and right at this moment he sees a hypergiant, thousands of times larger than the sun and feels himself torch.
He’s running towards the mound before he knows it, his mask haphazardly thrown to the side and his arms wide open and Sawamura’s there. He’s right there and the distance between them becomes non-existent.
The next thing Kazuya knows, his arms are wrapped around reliable shoulders and he feels strong arms wrap around his middle.
His heart is pounding at an alarmingly high rate, his hand removing itself from Sawamura’s shoulder blade to nestle in the mess of his hair that is drenched in sweat and adhering to his forehead. It should be disgusting but it really isn’t because he’s here. He mildly realises that Sawamura’s cap must have flown off and relishes in the feeling of having him here like this.
Sawamura’s arms around Kazuya tighten their hold and he feels his heart squeeze and rattle in its ribcage and this is so stupid but of course, if there’s anyone who could make him feel this way it’d be Sawamura.
He feels the puffs of the pitcher’s shaky breaths against his neck and suddenly his neck feels too sensitive and he has to suppress a shiver at the feeling. He’s hyperaware of all the points of contact they have and it’s way too hot for this.
Their uniforms cling to their bodies and his chest protector is digging into him in an uncomfortable manner and the way they’re pressed to each other with non-existent space between them makes it almost unbearable. Almost.
Kazuya reluctantly steps back a little. Not enough to detach Sawamura’s arms from around him but enough to see his pitcher’s face.
Not really his though.
Not wanting to dwell on these kinds of thoughts, Kazuya’s hand slides down from the back of Sawamura’s head to rest leisurely at his nape, the hair tickling his palm.
The pitcher in question looks up at him, a smile so wide on his face that it looks like it might even hurt and realises that he himself is smiling, more genuinely than he has in years, his cheeks almost splitting at the force of it.
Sawamura has that look in his eyes again, wide and glassy and Kazuya still can’t put a finger on what it might be. He feels something restrict his windpipe, his breath hitching as the hands on his back steadily move their palms up and down his spine before settling at his waist.
Kazuya’s mind nearly shuts down at their proximity before they’re tackled by the rest of the team.
The deafening noise of the people around him hits him smack in the face as the next thing he knows he has a handful of Kuramochi who rubs his knuckles in Sawamura’s hair while cackling loudly with tears streaming down his face.
Kazuya feels hands thumping him on his back and turns his head to the side to see Shirasu and Zono, with the latter having huge tears running down his face non-stop yet they both have smiles plastered on their faces.
He’s surrounded by his teammates, the ones he’s come so damn far with, mounting with the peak so high up and still making their way to the top. He wouldn’t rather be here with anyone else.
Kazuya was right. It feels breathless and like breathing for the first time in the same wavelength.
He hears rumbustious laughter and rounds his head in the direction of the noise to see Kuramochi, Sawamura and Kanemaru tangled up in a mess of limbs, all of them crying with smiles splitting their faces and Kominato half-heartedly trying to get them all up as Furuya and Toujou stand right behind them looking fondly at the scene.
Kazuya feels a string of confusion when Kuramochi whispers something in Sawamura’s ears and then they both turn to look at him with an expression on their faces that makes him feel like he’s landed himself into one of Kuramochi’s horror themed video games.
They nudge the members next to them and animatedly tell them whatever plan they may have concocted and right as it dawns on Kazuya and he opens his mouth to refute, he’s being lifted in the air.
He almost regrets being a part of this team. Almost.
Kazuya practically drags his feet over to the buses. His head still feels dizzy as hell from being thrown in the air, the chants of ‘Hurrah!’ ringing in his head like a never ending beat of a song that worms its way inside your head and refuses to leave.
The bag slung over his shoulder feels heavier due to the exhaustion that has begun to sink deep into his wrung out muscles, the ache in his knees settling in now that the adrenaline has started to wash away, yet it all feels weightless somehow too.
It’s not heavy in the way it tends to be when hours of relentless play under the deliberating heat of the field results in nothing but a sense of loss that hits deep inside places in a way nothing else ever does.
Kazuya’s familiar with that sense of loss, as athletes who play sports not just for the play itself but for that exhilarating rush that comes with winning, with sparring their way to the top and holding that mantle rightfully so do.
He knows that the wins and losses are nothing but just a tally that keeps switching whenever they step on the field like an indecisive kid who can’t pick what drink they’d like to have out of the three options presented to them and picking something entirely different in the end.
He knows but that doesn’t make the feeling any more fun. Instead it just stings.
That’s just the way sports is. That’s the way baseball is. Things have a way of rotating their direction and turning the tables with as much as a single pitch, a hit that no one expected, a misstep, a fielding error.
There is no such thing as a guaranteed win, no one knows how things might change with the slightest of movements and decisions. Anyone who has the mentality of underestimating their opponents no matter the difference in level they possess and assuming that they’ve won before the last ball is pitched, is in for a rude awakening.
Drive is a powerful motivator and any team can possess it, whether it be the underdog that’s hungry for more and craves the rush of the unfamiliar feeling of standing at the top, the kings that know well how it feels to breathe the air that is strikingly different up there or the challengers that fell from that position and are ready to put there hands on it again.
The team who has that drive has the power to do the unthinkable and nothing is impossible anymore.
They had that drive, all of them standing here. Kazuya rakes his memory for the exact number, 120 teams from West Tokyo. In Koshien itself, they had to compete against 50 teams before making it to the top and the same stands for every other team who made it to the national stage.
Kazuya suppresses a shiver at the thought and mentally shakes his head at the disbelief because it still hasn’t fully sunk in his mind.
They made it.
His team had the drive and so did everyone else’s because making it to Koshien is a feat in itself. They had many close experiences with defeat that still leave a nasty aftertaste in his mouth. Losing was simply not an option anymore, and they didn’t. They didn’t lose at all.
They just kept going and going till they had it all and holding it in his hands right now makes the pressure of it heavy with the dreams of the thousands that never made it here.
He wouldn’t trade it for anything else.
He wonders if it gets easier the longer the plays, on much bigger stages, till Koshien remains just as significant and important a memory that he looks back on with fondness, but a memory nonetheless.
That stage where nationals don't seem to be as huge of a wall as it does right now. A wall that they hit till it had no choice but to become rubble and debris at their feet. The thought is equally terrifying and invigorating.
Kazuya can’t wait.
He spots the rest of his team up front surrounded by people from their school, avid baseball fans that came to watch their match and support them and ugh- There are reporters hovering around trying to get the best shot for publishing purposes and that’s fine he knows they’re just doing their job but he hates it when they gravitate towards him and ask him personal questions about his goals and his plans for the future like it’s any of their business.
They never seem to get the memo that it’s most definitely not. He has to try hard to keep the snark out of his tone when they insistently keep asking, not realising or caring that he has no motives to answer.
He doesn’t have the patience for it today. He knows there are high chances he’ll slip up and forget to filter his words and he doesn’t want to deal with the ineluctable consequences that’ll come later. It’s decidedly not worth it.
He tries to make himself inconspicuous by tilting himself towards the right, in the opposite direction of where most of the interviewers and reporters are mustered. The plan clearly isn’t foolproof because he catches Kuramochi’s eye instead who gives him a questioning look before disentangling himself from others and slowly making his way towards Kazuya.
Kuramochi presents him with the most unimpressed look imaginable and it’s impressive, seeing as how he can hardly stand on his feet without some form of support. Kazuya tries to hold in a snicker and fails miserably.
Kuramochi ignores him and plows on, “You sure took your sweet ass time getting here. We’ve been waiting for you guys for ages.” He kicks Kazuya’s shin lightly, “Thought we’d melt into the sidewalk by the time you came back.”
Kazuya simpers at him, “Missed me that much, Mochi?” He grins and smothers his laugh at the deadpanned look he receives in return, “Had some things to sort out with the coach so I got held back.”
More like potential scouts and recruiters that wanted to talk to him right after the match with no rest and reprieve. He’d narrowly managed to reply as eloquently as possible, just wanting to take a shower and slip into his bed.
Thankfully, Rei-chan intervened when it became much apparent that he’s hardly holding himself together at that point, and asked them to reschedule the meeting to a later date. But, semantics right?
Wait. You guys?
Kazuya surveys his surroundings and instantly notices a few members missing from their team, “Where’s Sawamoron and the others?” He ignores the pointed stare from Kuramochi who half snorts, half scoffs and answers, “He’s getting interviewed. They’re probably there to make sure he doesn’t get lost.”
“Hah! Bold of you to assume they won’t all get lost. Wait, who's getting interviewed? Sawamura?”
Kuramochi grunts in affirmation and digs through his bag for a water bottle for himself and passes another to Kazuya. He sips the water while Kazuya uncaps the lid slowly, processing this new piece of information.
However it’s not that new. Nor is it surprising.
Kazuya should have seen this coming anyway. Sawamura is the ace of Seidou High School, the powerhouse that just won the Nationals. He pitched phenomenally in the finals, the entire tournament really.
He restricted their opponents to just one run and gave up merely six hits and no walks. He might not have been the starting pitcher for the match on coach’s order to save up his energy, but he was irrefutably the reliable ace that he has proven himself to be over the past few months whenever he stepped on the mound.
He recalls that even Furuya got interviewed at Senbatsu this year and both him and Sawamura had reporters interviewing them post-match the past few days.
They both must have scouts attending these matches to assess their level of talent and skills with their own eyes, whether it be for professional or university teams even though they still have more than a year left.
His mind sidetracks towards his own decision pertaining to his plans for the not so distant future and tilts his head back to drain the water bottle empty.
He’s definitely sure about his resolution, has spent nights staying up late weighing the pros and cons in his mind, carefully laying out his options and thinking as long-term as possible and came to the conclusion which seemed right to him no matter how difficult and intense it would be.
He has never half-assed anything in his life, let alone his baseball and he has no qualms in taking the more difficult road to reach the top.
Kazuya pulls the bottle back from his lips, relief perceptible in his sigh and caps it to keep it inside his own bag. He’ll throw it out later in the dorms.
His skin prickles the longer he stands in this humidity that makes him want to peel his skin off. He’s half tempted to go look for them himself and drag them away with some half-baked excuse so they can leave and he can rest, but walking seems too much of an effort for his legs that feel more like steel beams rather than human flesh and bones at the moment.
He’ll needle the hell out of Sawamura later to make him make up for it.
Kazuya’s phone pings in his pocket and he reaches into it to pull it out, wondering who it could be. He knows it can’t be his dad who must be working right now with his break ending a little while ago.
He peers down at the screen to see a mail notification from Mei. He quirks an eyebrow and smirks slightly as he reads the message,
‘Next time you better be on my team Kazuya or I’ll never let you get a hit on one of my pitchers for the rest of your career.’
Kazuya scoffs, typical Mei with his half compliments wrapped up in demands and self-appraisal. His fingers fly across the tiny keyboard to frame back a reply,
‘That’s not up to me, Your Majesty. Do you not know how the drafts work?’
He snickers to himself, easily imagining the way Mei would seethe at the title, having seen it personally many times and causing most of those reactions himself. He never not says it sarcastically and ironically and it never fails to make Mei bristle.
He swipes back to see a few more mail notifications, one from Mima that he’ll return later and- Ah. His dad. Kazuya, mildly surprised because he wasn’t expecting a message from him right away and thought he’d get one either late at night or tomorrow early morning, checks the time at which he receives it and it displays half an hour ago.
He must have been on his break then.
Kazuya swipes open the mail and feels a smile unwittingly make its way to his mouth as his eyes rake over the lines,
‘You did well, Kazuya. I managed to watch the last few innings and your at-bat at the end in the middle of my break. Congrats on winning.’
He watched the match.
Kazuya’s grateful because he knows how hard his dad is working, has been for years, to support them and hardly has any time to spare for himself let alone to watch a match.
He really wishes to reach that stage soon where he can help and support him back, to repay him for all his hardwork over the years.
He lightly snorts at the thumbs up emoji towards the end and slides his phone back in his pocket after replying to his dad.
He feels a sudden weight on one half of his body and shifts his eyes over to Kuramochi who swings an arm around his shoulder, leaning most of his body weight on him as if he’s a pole and not about to become a heap on the floor himself.
Kazuya hardly has the energy to shake him off though, not that Kuramochi would let up on his attempts even if he did. He jabs at him to make up for it, “Don’t your feet hurt for you to stand on your tiptoes just to do this?”
He’s shaken by the arm around him before getting a hit in the head that hardly makes an impact, a testament to how tired Kuramochi must be.
They drag themselves over to where the rest of the team is hurdled. The reporters had left a few minutes ago. Kazuya meets Nabe’s eyes who gives him a small smile which he reciprocates, and then they wait.
Kazuya fiddles with the pencil in his hands and resolutely looks at the scorebook in front of him. He’s had a shower, eaten his dinner and he would have slipped in his bed which looks ridiculously more tempting with each passing second if it weren’t for two reasons why he has to sit here at his desk.
The first being that his mind, as per usual, doesn’t truly rest even though his body hopelessly needs it, and if he doesn’t analyse the scorebook at least once then he’ll just be restless no matter the time and that’s not a pleasant feeling when your body is tumbling down from the adrenaline high it has been on.
Especially if he can’t review the matches, which he reluctantly promised Zono that he’d do tomorrow instead and just rest for today, Nabe and Shirasu right behind him as if they were staging an intervention.
Maybe they were, Kazuya muses.
However, the reason which is more prevalent is the presence behind him. More accurately on the other side of the room which he is purposely avoiding to look at because it won’t help with his current state of restlessness, instead it will just key him up even more.
He fails to account for the fact that he’s a weak person with no control in matters that are still fairly new to his knowledge and when he’s equally new in experiencing them, matters that have less to do with his mind than he’s used to and is at ease with.
He’d be fine if it was just one thing to handle at a time but it’s not, it’s much more than that and he’s tired and has a much weaker will than he thought he possessed so he can’t help but sneak a glance.
Sawamura is sitting on the floor with his back resting against the wall, his hands holding up his phone.
He’s watching something on the screen and seems to be pretty engrossed in it if the look of concentration on his face is anything to go by.
His position is reminiscent of a few weeks ago, when he was sitting right there except he had been looking much more despondent and they had far less been on the same page due to Kazuya’s inability to say exactly what’s on his mind without deflecting it, and masking it with honey-coated persiflage that leans more towards a bitter aftertaste than saccharine and stings harder than he had intended for it to, torching the rooftop of his mouth and making his tongue numb.
Kazuya has a tendency of getting paper cuts from his own knife sharp edges when it comes to the person in front of him, and he doesn’t bother putting a bandaid on them to make them serve as a reminder.
He’s been trying to get better at actually communicating to avoid inane misunderstandings as they don’t need a repeat of the multiple incidents that have happened in the past at the expense of them being idiots. He knows his actions have been a catalyst, if not the root source of many of those episodes and he doesn’t want a repeat.
Keyword being trying. Kind of.
Honestly, it’s not like Sawamura helps either in that particular case because most of the time if something is bothering him he’d just pretend that nothing is wrong and laugh it off no matter how much it doesn’t reach his eyes.
He makes it really hard to talk to him about any of those matters because he doesn’t like to admit that there’s a problem in the first place. He has this way of sharing information about himself that lets others believe that they know all the details, that he discloses all kinds of predicaments he faces, because he lets them know of the little issues but never the real ones that weigh down on his mind.
Kazuya is aware of the hypocrisy in his mental thought process and he knows personally how arduous it can be to acknowledge that you might need help and downright terrifying to accept it.
He wonders how much of Sawamura’s methods of dealing with mental pressure reflect back on Kazuya’s actions and mentally scoffs at how arrogant and self-conceited that sounds, not to mention assumptive. He has no right to revolve this around him irrespective of whether he plays a role in it or not.
Kazuya runs his eyes over Sawamura’s form. He’s wearing a plain white shirt with a graphic print at the front and a few water droplets from his still dripping hair are wetting his shoulders, as he must have come presumably right out of the shower.
His bangs fall over his eyes and a few stray strands stick to his forehead. Kazuya isn’t sure how he can even see anything.
He didn’t even dry his hair properly. Idiot.
Kazuya looks around himself to find a spare towel and flings it in Sawamura’s direction who looks up absentmindedly at the sound of the commotion just in time to catch the projectile with his hands and not his face.
Sawamura looks down at the towel and raises his head along with his eyebrow to look at Kazuya questioningly who merely sighs hopelessly at the idiot before responding,
“Dry your hair properly dumbass. Do you want to get sick?” His monotonous tone phrases the question more like a statement.
Sawamura stills for a moment before laughing like the brat he is and looks at Kazuya with a glint in his aurum eyes that makes Kazuya’s breath hitch in his throat.
Kazuya belatedly realises that he’s smirking too, looking damn smug and the sinking horror at the revelation that this self-assured look on Sawamura’s face makes him feel something is a real nightmare because what the hell, he did not sign up for this at all.
He’d have preferred to never learn this about himself.
“Miyuki-senpai, are you worried about me?”
He halts himself from thinking more about that particular mess and locks it away to never introspect over. He has no intentions of unpacking anything related to this ever.
Ignorance is bliss and all that.
He mentally shakes his head at himself and is proud when his voice comes out no less steady than usual,
“Not sure how it’d reflect on you Ace if you couldn’t pitch at the next practice because you got sick. Then again, you know what they say about idiots and getting cold.”
“Hey!” Sawamura exclaims indignantly and Kazuya heartedly laughs. Poking fun at Sawamura is always so entertaining. He puffs up like a cat at the most miniscule of provocations and his hilarious reactions always crack Kazuya up.
Predictably, he huffs and launches into one of his heated up lectures while drying his hair with the newly acquired towel,
“Miyuki Kazuya! I’ll have you know, being raised in Nagano makes it next to impossible to fall sick! I bet that you get ill at the drop of a hat since you’re a city boy who wouldn’t know a thing about immunity.”
Kazuya ignores the latter part of the statement, “Knowing you, you’d somehow manage to make it possible anyway.”
He has a tendency to do that.
Sawamura sputters and flounders for a minute before letting the towel fall in his lap and picking up his forgotten phone from next to him on the floor, twisting his body away from Kazuya and presenting him with his back instead of his face.
Kazuya snickers in amusement yet pauses as he remembers Sawamura’s choice of sitting. He usually does sit or lie down on the floor when he visits his room but they’ve had a particularly grueling and exacting match today irrespective of how rewarding it was and there’s no way the floor is any easy on Sawamura’s form which he’s sure is sore right now.
He hesitates to call for Sawamura’s attention however, for some inexplicable reason finding it much harder now with his back turned to him. He doesn’t really know how to say it either.
He contemplates leaving Sawamura be, he never listens to anything anyone says to him let alone Kazuya, unless they’re Chris, and he doesn’t think the pitcher is about to start doing that anytime soon if not never.
However, he takes into account how unpleasant it must be to sit on the cold hard floor after the kind of day they’ve had and decides. Fuck it. Irritated at his own indecision, Kazuya sighs before parting his lips to call out, “Sa-”
Before he can so much as finish saying his name let alone anything else, Sawamura nearly abruptly gets up, turns in Kazuya’s direction yet without sparing him a glance, he wordlessly makes his way straight to the lower half of Kazuya’s bunk bed and plops himself down on it like he owns it.
He really does treat his room and everything in it as if it’s his own.
Kazuya doesn’t call him out on it tonight though, returning his focus back to the scorebook after seeing Sawamura’s attention reverting back to his phone.
They spend the next ten minutes or so doing just that, with no words spoken between them and the only noise in the air being the scribbling of a pencil as a result of Kazuya taking notes, pausing to gather his thoughts and erasing whenever he makes a mistake or comes up with any alternatives.
He easily becomes engrossed in his task at hand, the methodology relaxing his mind and providing something for him to focus on at present instead of the plethora of things that he’d rather leave for tomorrow when his mind is much more ready to take on that job.
His concentration is pulverized when the pitcher behind him speaks up, mumbling his words, “It hasn’t fully sunk in yet.”
Kazuya hums non committedly and keeps his eyes trailed downwards at his book, raking over the numbers that his mind can no longer process. He knows it’s pointless to try and get himself to pay attention to the statistics anymore now that all of it has been encaptivated by Sawamura with no chance of escape.
Pitches are really so selfish, Kazuya thinks, not fond at all.
He feels eyes at the back of his head yet he doesn’t turn around to look at Sawamura. He hears him sniggering a moment later, amusement palpable in his voice, “Miyuki Kazuya, do you plan on falling asleep on that desk?”
“Not that you’d know anything about it, Sawamoron.”
“How dare you call me a moron?! I’ll have you know that this Sawamura Eijun has fallen asleep at his desk many times!”
“That’s not something you should proudly announce either.” Kazuya knows without even looking at himself that he has a smile on his face, pulling up at his lips in a much softer way than he’d like it to let alone let anyone see, least of all Sawamura himself, so he doesn’t look at him while they banter with each other familiarly yet doesn’t suppress his chuckles either.
They sound disgustingly warm even to his own ears so he can only hope that Sawamura is dense enough to not realise that. Kazuya really needs to learn how to be more subtle. It’s a wonder Sawamura hasn’t figured him out yet but the idiot is dead set on surpassing all his expectations and it seems that this is no exception to that rule either.
He hears Sawamura grumbling and shifting on his bed, most probably making himself even more comfortable and settling down. That really doesn’t help Kazuya’s predicament.
“Right!” Kazuya is shaken out of his thoughts at that and turns to look at Sawamura quizzically only to lose his breath and feel sharp pangs in his chest at the imagery of Sawamura resting against his headboard with his legs sprawled out in front of him, on Kazuya’s bed and tries to imprint the image in his mind and light it on fire simultaneously, “I meant to ask you. Where’s Kuramochi-senpai?”
Sawamura doesn’t bother looking up as he poses the question and Kazuya is glad for the moment of reprieve because there’s no way he’d manage to look composed in time if Sawamura’s eyes were on him. He’d unravel everything Kazuya’s been trying to seal shut and failing miserably at, no matter how much of an idiot he may be.
Kazuya prays to any gods out there if there are any to make the shaking in his voice imperceptible and smirks in a way he doesn’t feel, “Oh? So curious about your senpai’s whereabouts huh.”
At that, Sawamura looks up deliberately slowly and the deadpanned expression he throws in Kazuya’s direction has him stuck between wanting to needle him more and answering him so he’d stop looking at Kazuya with those eyes just so that Kazuya can finally breathe.
He picks the latter, purely out of sympathy and generosity towards the younger and not because of his flailing composure. Still, because he’s an asshole, he doesn’t drop the smirk, “He’s most probably knocked out on his bed. He was heading to his room after dinner and looked ready to pass out.”
Sawamura hums thoughtfully while picking at a loose thread on his shirt, “He’ll gather everyone in your room tomorrow then.”
Kazuya groans at the reminder though he’s not nearly as displeased or annoyed as he’d usually be at the arrangement.
They have been doing it a lot more recently, with the third years’ time on the team running out like water seeping through the imperceptible space between fingers. Most of these team bonding sessions happen in Room 5 but sometimes, Kuramochi veers everyone to Kazuya’s room instead.
Reminiscent of how they used to do it till Kazuya became a third year and got another roommate.
Kuramochi talks shit about the lack of space for putting up his gaming console and how Kazuya is a lazy bastard who refuses to shift things around for the sake of ‘getting to know their underclassmen’.
Kazuya has no idea why he keeps Kuramochi around and why they have to do these things here at all.
He doesn’t really mind though, not that he’d admit it.
They wouldn’t be around long enough to have the same kind of bond with the first years as they do with the second years, but it is nice to have most of the team in the same space doing random things to pass time. Whether it be betting on who’s going to win the next match in Smash Bros and Kominato leaving them all in dust majority of the time, or Kuramochi and Sawamura head to head in the lead in Mario Kart with Kanemaru egging Sawamura on before Seto swoops in and claims the victory.
He remembers Okumura and wonders why he hasn’t made it back to their room despite it being much later than his usual practice time.
He asks Sawamura on the off chance that he knows where he is and he’s taken aback when Sawamura does seem to know the answer which he tells him while shrugging,
“Okumura said that he’ll be staying over at Seto’s tonight. He told me to tell you after dinner.”
Kazuya mutters underneath his breath, “You’d think he’d inform his roommate and captain himself.”
Sawamura must have heard him anyway because he half snorts and Kazuya picks up the eraser next to his notebook and throws it hard in his direction in retaliation.
He makes the mistake of looking at Sawamura while doing so because he sees him catch the eraser effortlessly, his reflexes as a pitcher showing and Kazuya’s mouth suddenly feels dry at the lopsided smile on his face, his eyes glinting with hardly hidden mischievousness.
He laughs and Kazuya keeps the sound tucked away in his mind, “Miyuki Kazuya! What is up with you throwing things at me today?” He throws the eraser back at Kazuya who grabs it out of mid air and places it back to its original position.
Kazuya shrugs in return with a matching grin on his face and nags at Sawamura playfully, “How come you wanted to know about Kuramochi anyway?”
He almost wishes he hadn’t when he hears the answer, “Nothing! I just wanted to know if I could sneak back to my room, but he’d get mad if I accidentally woke him up so can I just sleep here?”
Kazuya nods in affirmation absentmindedly while his mind still reels at this new wrench that Sawamura has decided to throw in his plans of getting some rest tonight.
Now, it’s not Sawamura’s first time sleeping in Kazuya’s room.
He tends to take naps right on the floor in the middle of reading one of his mangas if he’s especially tired and has, on more than one occasion, taken up the empty half of the bunk bed if their game calling tutoring sessions, or however you want to call them, lasted late into the night, with the others having left hours ago yet they lost track of time while discussing the pitching sequences for the next match.
Therefore, it is not about this ritual being new but about the knowledge that it is happening and Kazuya has no idea how he’s supposed to relax when Sawamura’s in such close proximity, right there.
He’s keyed up tonight more than usual, jaded beyond words and in especially weak moments, his mind keeps wandering to a few hours ago, to the mound and what they shared there on the diamond.
Kazuya’s still sitting on the desk, the scoreboard long forgotten and the soreness hits him out of nowhere, his prolonged position not helping him in the least. He resigns himself to his fate and stands up, stretching his arms above his head till it’s satisfying and moves towards his bed.
He eyes the upper half where he usually sleeps yet can’t bring himself to actually make his way up the ladder when his eyes are drooping every minute.
He treads his way to the lower half where Sawamura is half lying on the mattress with his back propped against the pillow. His eyes shift to Kazuya when he’s right next to the edge of the mattress.
Kazuya swats at his arm lightly, wordlessly telling him to move and Sawamura repositions himself much closer to the wall.
Kazuya slips in the bed, marginally little space between them, and he can actually feel the heat radiating off of Sawamura. He drags the comforter upward till it covers their legs and rests against the side of the pillow not occupied by the pitcher.
He tilts his head sideways to see what Sawamura has been watching on his phone this entire time and is welcomed by the image of a person demonstrating how to grip a ball at what seems to be the inside of the seam and the front edge.
He glances at Sawamura with his eyebrow raised in question. Sawamura runs his fingers through his hair, pushing back the strands and sheepishly smiles at Kazuya, “The slider in the seventh didn’t break as late as I was hoping for it to, so I’m reviewing the technique again.”
His hand trails down towards his neck which he rubs lightly before reaching out to press play on the video that he had paused a few moments ago. Kazuya stares at Sawamura’s side profile, with words right at the tip of his tongue, waiting to be let loose.
Words resembling ‘The pitches you threw today were the best you’ve ever thrown. It was exhilarating to feel them hit my mitt and there’s no one I’d rather catch for, no one I’d rather experience that with than you.’ The kind that were dangerously close to the truth, right down to the parts of his mind no one is privy to, the kind that feels like lead in his mouth.
The ‘you deserve to take a break’, ‘you don’t have to scrutinise all the details of your pitching today’, ‘you did more than well enough’ fall flat on his tongue because he knows Sawamura would let them pass right through his ears.
He swallows through the metallic taste and asks him the other question that he’s had on his mind since he noticed, “Why are you watching it on mute though?”
Sawamura blinks twice at him, not expecting the question as if it isn’t a legitimate one then gives him a weird look as if the answer should be obvious even though to Kazuya, it really isn’t.
“I didn’t want the noise to disturb you. You looked busy.” He nonchalantly states as if it’s not something that has just tipped Kazuya’s world at its axis. Maybe no one would think twice about the implications but to Kazuya it’s enough to make him feel like he’s lost the war before he even began, grappling with the emotions the simple statement evokes in him.
Kazuya has never met anyone as mindful, heedful, kind and honest as Sawamura. He doesn’t think that many people like him exist, the kind that light up the place no matter where they go, their energy and presence taking up the entire space and demanding attention in an unintentional yet simple way that cannot be refuted.
He doesn’t know how to deal with Sawamura’s everything when it’s directed at him. He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it, would always be left in a mess of his own being made by him.
Kazuya resorts to mocking Sawamura, needing to keep up the sense of familiarity with their usual banter to not lose himself in a whirlwind of thoughts, “Why don’t you just use your headphones then idiot?‘
His skin tingles when Sawamura bristles before laughing, his cadence rough yet warm at the same time, “They’re in my room! It’s not like I can go and get them now.”
Kazuya tsks at him and points at his desk where his pair of headphones are lying, “How are you even understanding anything? Just use mine and put them back when you’re done. I’m not getting up though, so get them yourself.”
Sawamura frowns at him and it shouldn’t be as endearing as it is. He deliberately presses himself against the pillow, making a show of not getting up. He scowls at Kazuya, “No need! I’ll put the captions on if I have to. I’m not getting up either!”
He shifts around a little before finally settling in a comfortable position and Kazuya would pester him more, maybe tell him to shove off and sit on the upper bed instead but Kazuya’s not any less selfish than the pitchers he proclaims are and he doesn’t want this warmth to leave till the last possible second, when it has no choice but to.
Their sides are pressed together. Kazuya can feel all the points of contact between them, from their arms that know nothing of space to their legs that are tangled together in the comforter.
He has to hold back a shiver.
It’s not like physical proximity is a new concept for them, with the many times they’ve had their arms wrapped around the other’s shoulders, fist bumping, and hands, mitts, or gloves touching each other’s chest. A testament that this closeness isn’t strange or unfamiliar.
In a way, most of the time, it relaxes Kazuya’s nerves, even though the intention is to do that for Sawamura, but not in this setting. Not like this.
He’s not used to this. This is new and no matter how apt he may be at adapting to unprecedented situations, Sawamura is, yet again, an exception to that rule. Not unlike the many others he refuses to abide by but the same ones that Kazuya tries his hardest to maintain.
He’ll spend the rest of forever stumbling into scenarios where he has no idea what to do next, all because of this one person. He doesn’t mind that as much as he should.
Still, he is Miyuki Kazuya after all and he refuses to let any situation get the best of him so, he forces his muscles to relax and realises it doesn't take much force at all, and ignores his pulsating skin in favor of getting that much needed rest.
He sinks closer to Sawamura subconsciously, soaking the warmth that he radiates. Not like the kind where it’s a wildfire when he’s on the mound, but like a weighted blanket that strips a person of all thoughts and leaves them feeling sleepy and sated.
He remembers how it felt on the mound, with the sun right in front of him, and how he felt his skin melt off like wax when he’d held it in his hands. How he had wanted more. He’d never wanted to let go.
Kazuya doesn’t know how much time passes or when he had shut his eyes. He slowly opens them, blinking a few times to shake off the disorientation and registers his new position.
He has managed to shift down the bed so his face is pressed against Sawamura’s shoulder who has opted for playing a random mobile game that Kazuya knows nothing about.
He doesn’t bother moving, resting his head right there and feeling the body heat from Sawamura through the thin layer of his shirt.
His frames dig uncomfortably into the sides of his face, placed at an awkward angle but Kazuya doesn’t move his hand to either straighten them or remove them. He’d have to dislodge himself from Sawamura and he really doesn’t want to do that right now nor does he have the energy to.
They sit like that for who knows how long and Kazuya doesn’t think he has the energy to move and relocate himself to the upper bed. He feels the hold sleep has on him and Sawamura is right there and he’s warm, solid and real. Kazuya's only human.
He’s had to pull himself away from this person way too many times but he doesn’t know how to do it tonight.
He could get used to this, and isn’t that a dangerous thought.
He blankly stares at Sawamura’s phone screen, watching him tap on it and pass a ball through hoops of different shapes and sizes with a scoreboard at the top of the screen. Sawamura accidentally hits one of the hoops and ‘game over’ is displayed.
His finger hovers over the replay button before he pauses. Kazuya looks up at Sawamura who’s apparently looking down at him with an inscrutable face before it smooths over and a smile takes its place instead.
Kazuya shuts his eyes and hears the rustling of the bed as Sawamura shifts next to him. He’s practically lying down, with his neck at a weird angle on the pillow, which is going to be a terrible pain in the morning.
He mumbles, “I should get up to the other bed.” His words slurring and mashing towards the end, probably incoherent. Sawamura lightly flicks his forehead before replying,
“You can hardly stay awake Miyuki-senpai.” His voice is at a much lower level than expected from a person like him, though Kazuya can practically hear the laugh in it. He knows if he were to see Sawamura’s face right now, he’d be met with a shit eating grin.
Moments later, Kazuya feels a hand slip under his head, holding it up and supporting it while Sawamura shifts a few things around. His head is lowered on the newly adjusted pillow, no longer propped up against the headboard, instead lying flat on the mattress.
Kazuya lets a sigh of relief pass his lips as his head hits the pillow and the tension in his neck is released. He knows he’s about to fall asleep any moment now.
His glasses are taken off of his face with utmost gentleness and he feels a hand running their fingers through his hair, pushing back the bangs from his forehead before pulling back. The contact is brief yet there is something so tender about it that Kazuya musters up his remaining dwindling energy to open his eyes.
He sees Sawamura hovering right above him with his glasses held carefully in one hand and an expression so soft on his face it leaves Kazuya wondering if he’s imagining it, hallucinating it in his delirium.
Kazuya doesn’t know what to make of it and he doesn’t want to do that right now anyway.
He lets his eyes fall shut again, feeling more secure in a way that he hasn’t felt in many years, and lets sleep drag him under.
His half asleep mind registers the warmth leaving his side, cold air taking up its place. The bed dips as the person maneuvers their way around his body and then whispers of people talking reach his ears. He couldn’t be bothered to open his eyes and see for himself, however, too tired to even accomplish that task.
He has to fight back the disappointment at the now empty side of his bed though.