Chapter Text
You have one job, Eijun. Don’t screw this up.
He gives the rosin bag a couple more tosses before he drops it, letting his chalky fingers wrap around the ball instead. He runs a callused index over the seams and squeezes hard for good luck.
Bottom of the ninth. Runners on first and third. Two strikes, two balls. They were leading by a single run and all it would take was one more out for it to be a win.
Eijun scrapes his shoe against the mound, glancing at Araki who’s crouched over home plate. Araki shifts his weight, fingers signaling for a fastball to the bottom right corner.
Normally, Eijun would take it. It’s one of his favorites, a pitch that was deadly when unruly and even more so once it was perfected. But this is their last shot.
Eijun hesitates, and then shakes his head.
Even behind the catcher’s mask, Eijun can tell Araki is surprised. But he doesn’t insist on his first call, and signs for a cutter on the inside instead. Some of the tension on Eijun’s shoulders eases and he simply nods. He doesn’t smile, not yet. He has one job and he can’t, won’t let his team down.
He allows himself one last inhale before he winds up, leg kicking high and arm swinging back before shooting forward. Eijun knows, as soon as the ball leaves his fingertips, that it’s perfect. The trajectory, the speed, the break, the location; all of it is at the best it could be.
Yet when the ball meets the bat and goes soaring over his head, across the infield and outfield to beyond the fence, it still feels like it’s his fault anyway.
———
There’s a certain expression on Sawamura’s face that Kazuya hates to see.
He’s seen Sawamura through a lot. He’s watched him cheer with his entire heart even when he didn’t get the ace position. He’s seen him cry unabashedly when he lost his first Koushien. He was there when he worked his way through grief and loss, persevering until he could carry it without it weighing him down.
But the worst is always when Sawamura stifles himself. When he bottles down his misery and blinks back his tears like he’s smothering down a fire. When he chews on his lip to stop the trembling and pulls up a smile to conceal his guilt.
And when Sawamura’s teammates drag him in, pulling their relief pitcher into a hug and reassuring him that it wasn’t his fault, he wears that despicable facade.
For Sawamura, who has always been nothing short of the fiercest flame, it looks all too wrong.
He let this go too far.
Kazuya doesn’t think twice.
“I have to go.”
———
Eijun tucks in for the windup, leg rising high before the ball leaves his fingertips, fast and fluid before it reaches Yasuda’s glove with a crack.
“And that would be ball four,” he announces, pushing up his headgear before jogging towards Eijun. His brows are pinched in the middle and Eijun already knows what’s coming. “Seriously, Sawamura, are you alright today? Your pitches haven’t been bad, per se, but…”
You’ve been doing worse than usual. The unspoken words loom over them like storm clouds, dark and menacing and unmistakable. Eijun wipes his brow with his sleeve and swallows thickly. You’ve been slowly getting worse and it’s only getting more obvious. Especially after the game against Waseda.
“Would you like to call it a day?” Yasuda offers kindly, a crooked smile on his lips. “I know we’ve only done about thirty pitches but maybe it’s best to rest a bit.”
“Yeah,” Eijun manages, schooling his face into a taut grin. It leaves sour on his tongue. “Okay. Sorry senpai, I just… I don’t know, it’s been a rough week.” He pulls his glove off, gesturing theatrically as they walk towards the locker rooms. “Can you believe I have to write a paper for my sociology class already? We just had a midterm the other day!”
Yasuda slaps his shoulder at the admission, chuckling. “Everyone has their off days, don’t worry about it,” he says pleasantly and sometimes, Eijun couldn’t tell whether he should be grateful for his dégagé senpai or not. The last thing he wanted on a day where everything was going to shit was to be coddled. “Go ice that shoulder and grab some dinner. We can practice again tomorrow.”
“Yes, senpai,” Eijun says dutifully, glancing back longingly at the mound. Even though his pitches were all over the place, he’s not yet done for the day. Tonight. He’ll come back tonight after a small bento dinner and hop the fence, praying that the indoor facilities were still left unlocked.
Eijun opts to take a shower before heading home, not that he really has a choice in the matter. The boiler system at his apartment had been inconsistent in its delivery of hot water since day one and he’d given up pestering his landlord about it; it would take a miracle to fix.
He stands under the water for a long time, head hanging low and letting the heat soothe his sore muscles. Eijun honestly hadn’t anticipated that practice today would go so pathetically. His aim had been atrocious and his pitches had broken everywhere except towards the desired location. It was embarrassing, frankly, and he was surprised at how agreeably Yasuda caught them. Yasuda was definitely more lenient than Araki but this was excusing him too far.
Eijun sighs as he turns off the running water, grabbing his towels swung over the door and drying himself as he heads out. His free hand hooks around the door handle while the other rubs at his hair.
“You don’t think he’s still caught up with what happened against Waseda, do you?”
Eijun freezes, the door still closed in front of him. Araki-senpai?
“I don’t know.” That was Yasuda. “He’s been whining about classes recently so it definitely could be stress from that. Besides, he didn’t seem to take it that hard.”
“True,” Araki replies with a sigh. “Kid’s always been an open book. But still, I’m not so sure. I’m afraid he’s still blaming himself for shaking me.”
I am.
“No way.” Yasuda sounds stunned. “But that was almost two months ago. We’re all over that. He said he was over that.”
“I know.” Eijun hears a locker slam close. “That’s why I hope that’s not the case.”
“I’ll watch him for a couple more days,” Yasuda says firmly, voice growing fainter. “He doesn’t seem injured and his overall condition is fine, even if his pitching is a bit astray. I’m sure he’s alright.”
Another door shuts and then they’re gone. It’s just Eijun left, water forming a small puddle around where he’s standing. He pulls open the door to the empty locker room and stands in front of his cubby for a long, long time.
Get it together, Eijun. They’re starting to suspect something.
By the time he makes it outside, the fields are empty. The sun is just a crack over the horizon and the temperature drops accordingly. Eijun shoves his hands deep into the pocket of the windbreaker, giving one last glance at the mound. He still remembers the day, down to the very moment. The burn of the sun over his face, even with the brim of his cap pulled down. The cloud of rosin and its piny scent when he brushed away the sweat below his nose. Araki, standing eighteen meters away, fingers morphing into a decisive sign.
Eijun blinks. It had been a long time since he suffered a loss like this. It had been a long time since he took it this hard.
When he pushes past the field gates, he hears a distinctly rambunctious voice. “Sawamura!” Kuramochi calls brightly, wicked smile on his face as he runs and throws an arm around his kouhai’s neck. Eijun groans at the sudden weight, but he’s used to the compromising position and can’t help the grin that stretches across his lips. “You heading home?”
“Yep,” Eijun replies, still trying to wiggle out of the grip but Kuramochi holds tight, still cackling. “I have to stop by the corner store first to grab dinner, but yeah.”
“You’re still eating there?” Kuramochi lets go, brows scrunched into a frown. “Careful, Sawamura, you can’t keep surviving off of convenience store food.”
“Says you,” Eijun shoots back, grinning cheekily. “Correct me if I’m wrong, senpai, but aren’t you the one who had food poisoning the last time you cooked for yourself?”
“You bastard.” Kuramochi tries to swipe at Eijun’s head but he ducks, laughing as he escapes. “I told you to never bring that up again!” In the end, he manages to get away with only one cuff to his temple. “But anyway, I was only asking because we’re heading out for dinner at a restaurant. Some of the second-years and all. People from the team too. You’re free to come along.”
The offer is tempting. He hasn’t had a proper meal since Wakana last came over and stocked his fridge with groceries and home-cooked food. Knowing Kuramochi, he probably won’t even let him spend a single yen, but Eijun shakes his head, quickly bringing forth a cheerful smile. “Thank you for the gracious offer, Mochi-senpai,” he falls into a deep bow, “but I will have to decline your courtesy. This Sawamura Eijun has a whole ton of assignments to complete tonight.”
Kuramochi wrinkles his nose in sympathy and Eijun’s relieved he was convincing enough to pull the lie off. “Alright, fair enough,” he says, landing Eijun a sharp thump on the back. “Take it easy, yeah?” He looks like he wants to say something, but decides against it. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
“Bright and early!” Eijun chirps, and Kuramochi makes a face.
Eijun heads straight for the pre-made meals in the corner store as soon as he steps inside. He grabs several bento boxes and a couple sides to go with. Then, because he’s feeling a bit generous today, he allows himself a pack of gummies as well.
When he drops his items on the counter, the girl behind the register raises a brow. “Stocking up for the week, Sawamura?” Kinami asks as she scans his items.
“Yes, senpai!” Eijun responds cheerfully, and she snickers in response. Having been a consistent customer to the convenience store since the beginning of the semester, it was easy to gain a reputation as a regular. “An athlete’s got to eat!”
Kinami chuckles fondly and slides over the plastic bag with his food. She accepts the bills Eijun hands her, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. “I’m pretty sure you should be eating healthier than this,” she says pointedly and before Eijun can humor her with a response, she leans forward onto her elbows. “How’s practice been going anyway?”
“Oh, you know,” Eijun brushes it off vaguely. “Same exhausting drills. I got some batting practice in today. Pitching too, which is always fun, though not as much as I wanted. I have this awesome cutter I’ve been working on but it’s all over the place.” If he were feeling a bit better about his performance today, he might’ve gone into more detail. Kinami was surprisingly well-versed in baseball jargon, and could keep up with the endless rants Eijun could sometimes dive into after an onerous practice. But the feeling of inadequacy still lingers, more so after the conversation he eavesdropped, so he tries to satiate her with a little rambling.
Fortunately, Kinami seems to buy it and takes it with a grin. “That’s good, then,” she nods appreciatively, then sucks in a deep breath. “Hey, Sawamura, I was wondering, would you like to grab some meat buns afterwards? My shift ends in twenty minutes so… it’ll be my treat.” She smiles shyly.
Something twists in Eijun’s stomach. He really, really hopes it isn’t what he thinks. “Ah, sorry, senpai, do you think we can maybe get some another day?” Eijun’s laugh is shakier than he would like it to be. Just act oblivious for now, we can deal with it later. “I have so much homework to catch up on tonight and Coach would seriously kill me—or worse, put me on the bench—if I’m late for practice in the morning.” The guilt comes immediately but he tries to will it down.
“Oh, yeah, of course,” Kinami says quickly, the apples of her cheeks growing a bit pink. Shit. “Another time, then.”
Eijun doesn’t have the heart to deny her. He nods as eagerly as he can and scoops his bag up. “Thanks for the offer, senpai! I’ll see you around!” Eijun rushes out of the store before the shame begins telling on his face.
In truth, Eijun doesn’t have that much work to do at all. Despite his recent incompetency on the playing field, he’d been trying his best to stay on top of his assignments at the very least. That wasn’t to say he was doing spectacular on the exams but he was passing, and that was all he really needed.
Weaseling out of group dinner was so that he could practice. Lying to Kinami… well, Eijun would much rather not dwell on that.
As soon as he enters his apartment, Eijun nearly trips over the line of shoes near the door. He hastily kicks them aside, along with the pair he’s wearing, and goes over to the kitchen to wash his hands. He pulls away the plastic lid of the container as he slides into his seat and bows to no one, mumbling a thanks for the food below his breath.
The food isn’t bad by any means but when he swallows it down, it feels like cardboard, no matter how well seasoned it was. He shovels the food into his mouth steadily, reminding himself that it wasn’t dust but rice in his mouth. Repetition was a slow killer but Eijun isn't about to compromise his nutrition on top of everything else that’s been going wrong.
Pocari helps wash out the dry flavor in his mouth and EIjun quickly tries to squeeze in some of his history work, trying his best not to lose himself to sleep. But the echo of the cheers from the Meiji Jingu stadium and the bitter reminder that the cries of joy weren’t for his side keep him awake. Eijun blazes through the readings, imagining the seams of a baseball beneath the calluses of his fingers.
———
The gates to the fields are open, unlocked, and Eijun carefully peeks around to see if anyone’s there. There’s nobody though, not in the field nor the facility, which only heightens his reservations. There’s no way the managers would’ve left the place accessible, and the coaches definitely didn’t stay out here this late. Weird, but hey, Eijun will take it. At least he didn’t have to hobble over the chain link fence and land comically on his ass as he did on most days.
Frankly, Eijun can’t say how beneficial his lone practice session will be. It wouldn’t be strenuous on his arm, not when he’s been under-pitching in recent weeks. He also knew pitching to a net wouldn’t be the same as a catcher. There’d be no skillful catching, no situational calls nor swift adaptations to nuanced pitches. Worst of all, there wouldn’t be the sound of the mitt when it was hit by a pitch.
His body is still loose and sore from practice earlier so Eijun only does some light stretches. He picks up his glove when he’s finished, inspecting it closely. It’s well cared for, obviously, because Eijun wouldn’t let something so sentimental to him just rot off, but it does need new stitching. This weekend, maybe.
Eijun readies himself across the nets, a bit dispirited at the lack of catcher on the other end. There’s no better practice than pitching to a good catcher, especially when he wants real input on the quality of his throws. But he can’t afford to be picky. This is all he has right now, and Eijun had better make the best of it. He exhales before adjusting his grip on the ball, elbow swinging back and—
“Oh, please don’t tell me you’re planning on pitching to absolutely no one.”
Eijun startles, wind up form crumbling immediately. His grip on the ball goes slack as he watches a figure emerge from the doors, clad in practice wear and backwards cap. Even meters away, Eijun can see the beginnings of a nasty smirk that reminds him far too much of Kuramochi.
“What?” Eijun frowns, taking a couple steps forward, trying to get a better look at the young man. A second string player? “Who are you?”
“Miyuki,” the stranger introduces himself, an easy smile on his lips. On the bright side, Eijun doesn’t know a Miyuki. On the flip side, he doesn’t know a Miyuki, and that induces the slightest bit of panic. An intruder? No way. Who would dare? “And my observation still stands.”
“Well, Miyuki,” scowls Eijun, a bit put off by the guy’s sudden presence and commentary, “considering there’s no one in the box to catch, then yes, I do plan on pitching to no one.”
“That’s Miyuki-senpai to you.” Miyuki touches the brim of his glasses, leaning back against the wall. Who was this guy? “And you can’t pitch without a catcher.”
The guy steps closer and somehow, even through his irritation, the only thing Eijun can notice are stark amber eyes that seem to be glowing behind a pair of glasses. “Who are you to tell me what to do?” Eijun asks, quickly jogging through his memory to ensure this wasn’t some upperclassman he’d forgotten.
Miyuki throws his hands up in retreat. “I’m not here to tell you what to do.” Then, out of seemingly nowhere, Miyuki produces a catcher’s glove from behind his back. “I’m only here to offer my catching services.”
…What?
Of all the possible things Eijun thought this weird stranger would say, that was not one of them. “You…” His annoyance diminishes into confusion. “You want to catch for me?”
“Yes.” It’s strange because despite Miyuki’s aggravating expression, he seems genuine with his proposal.
Frankly, Eijun’s skeptical. Even if the guy was dressed in the proper attire, he definitely wasn’t on the team; Eijun is pretty sure he’d remember a personality like that. He’s also never even encountered this guy in his classes, let alone on campus. “Do you know how to catch pitches?”
The shrug Miyuki gives him is alarmingly enigmatic. “I’ve dabbled here and there.”
Part of Eijun doesn’t want to pitch to this guy. That part of him is telling himself to run, to get out of here before this guy’s personality potentially takes a one-eighty and he turns out to be a serial killer like in one of Eijun’s thriller mangas. Apparently, they like to appeal to their victim’s soft spots and make themselves appear trustworthy. Yet another part of Eijun, the real stupid, gullible part, doesn’t want to spurn the opportunity to pitch to someone. Never mind the capabilities of the catcher.
Still, there must be a little bit of sense left in him because Eijun shifts his weight to one foot, sizing up the stranger in front of him. “Look, I don’t know who you’ve played with before but this is university baseball. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
To his surprise, Miyuki doesn’t seem thwarted by that at all. In fact, his Cheshire cat smile only deepens. “Well, if I get hurt, then that’s on me,” he lifts a shoulder, uncaring. This was getting weirder by the second. Eijun should really run. “Now, let’s warm up with some catch.” Miyuki lifts up his mitt and nods towards it.
Catch was… undeniably harmless. There’s no getting out of this now, was there? Eijun sighs, but tightens his hold around the ball. Then he swings his arm back and throws, watching the ball land right in Miyuki’s glove with a soft thump. But when Miyuki tosses back, straight to Eijun’s glove, again and again without fail, Eijun’s thinking that maybe he doesn’t really want to get out of this.
Eijun starts to change pace, no longer throwing casually. His balls are slowly increasing in speed but Miyuki doesn’t seem daunted by them in the slightest. He’s not just unfazed, though; each of Eijun’s throws land in his glove with the satisfying smack of someone who knows how to catch.
“Alright, that was a good warm up,” Miyuki decides after a dozen or so throws. Eijun gawks, still rendered speechless. There was something odd about this guy, and it had nothing to do with the comfort he had around a baseball. There was something else. “Go ahead and turn on the floodlights. I’ll go grab some gear.”
“Floodlights?” Eijun raises a brow, pinching his lips together. “For what?”
The look Miyuki gives him sneers isn’t it obvious, you idiot? “Don’t you want to pitch?”
“Oh,” he says dumbly, because he genuinely thought that was going to be all to his little practice. Sure, this guy was good at catching but Eijun’s pitches, if he could say so himself, weren’t something to underestimate. “You want to do this outside? Right now?”
“You want to pitch for real, don’t you?” What flashes across Miyuki’s face can’t be fully described in words. A feral grin, some amusement, and a hint of something… fond? “There’s no better place than the mound for that.” Then he’s gone, ducking into the locker rooms to grab the protectors.
Miyuki appears again when Eijun stands on the mound, tossing the rosin bag in his hand and digging his cleats into the soil. Miyuki’s wearing all the proper gear except knee guards, mask in his hand. When he positions himself in the box in front of the lights, there’s a soft, almost halo-like glow around him.
“You ready?” he calls, eyes eager and glowing. Eijun can still see the broad grin on his face and he nods, a weird feeling in his chest.
Miyuki slips on the mask before sinking into a crouched catcher’s stance, weight on his right leg but ready to move to the left. The perfect form of the squat takes Eijun off guard. There’s a certain fluidity to his movements, an ease and swiftness as he holds up his glove that makes it look like he’s done it a hundred times before.
He signals to the bottom inside corner, shifting his position as he does. “I want your best fastball, right here.”
For some reason, Eijun doesn’t think to question him. Maybe he’s a bit stunned by the sudden display of competence, or maybe he’s just distracted by the way Miyuki’s hair peeks through beneath the gear. He nods and winds up, fingers naturally finding their way to the seams, before the ball leaves his hand at an alarming speed.
It slams into Miyuki’s glove with a satisfying sound and Sawamura almost grins in surprise until Miyuki stands to throw the ball back. “Ball.”
“Ball?!” Eijun protests, eyes wide. That pitch felt so good. “No way that was a ball!”
“Ball,” repeats Miyuki, undeterred, and it sounds like he’s smirking. The ball returns back to Eijun’s open glove. “You’re way too stiff, you idiot. I know you can pitch better than that. Loosen up that shoulder and try again.”
Eijun squawks at the orders, but does as he says. He shakes out his arm and rolls it back, still glaring dubiously at Miyuki. He doesn’t want to be discourteous, not to a potential upperclassmen but this guy… There was no way that was a fluke.
After a sharp inhale, Eijun’s body coils before his right foot juts out, digging into the dirt before his left arm swings out from behind his back. When the ball reaches Miyuki’s mitt, he can see the flash of a smile. He stands, tossing the ball back, and Eijun feels a burst of exhilaration in his chest. “Nice pitch.”
It’s nothing like throwing to Okumura or Araki or Chris-senpai or any of the catchers Eijun’s ever worked with. Miyuki is demanding and straightforward, cutting right through Eijun’s skepticism, working his way through his arsenal in different ends of the strike zone. When he calls for pitches, he knows exactly what he wants and won’t compromise for anything even slightly off-kilter.
“That’s not where I asked for,” Miyuki points out when he catches a tad higher than he’d called for. His throw back is telling, too, of how he feels. Hard when he’s satisfied, weak when he’s not. Eijun’s not sure what to feel about this stranger anymore. He’d been confounded, then irritated, and now reluctantly impressed.
“You,” Eijun calls when he finally finds his voice, running the fingers along the ball he just caught. “You’re not just a casual player, are you?”
Miyuki looks vaguely amused by the accusation. “Something like that.”
“Are you a pro, then? Wait!” Eijun’s eyes go wide. “Are you a Big6 player?” Shit, he hadn’t even considered the possibility that Miyuki could be his competition. Was he from Waseda? No, he just played them and a Miyuki definitely wasn’t on their roster. Keio then? “Are you trying to do recon or something?”
But Miyuki laughs. “No, I don’t play for any university,” he snickers. “Nor do I play professionally, but I’m flattered that you think so.”
“It wasn’t a compliment!” Eijun snaps back, flushed. He glares down at the ball, like it did something wrong. “Ugh, just call the next pitch!”
Miyuki catches Eijun’s cutters with ease, and doesn’t flinch at the unpredictable breaks of his fastballs. He asks for the circle changeup, and even the splitters that Araki didn’t like to catch. It’s mind-boggling, what he does, and although Eijun’s bursting with questions, he’s not going to let them ruin the opportunity he has right now. Pitch first, answers later.
“You’re doing well today,” Miyuki remarks suddenly and Eijun stops tossing the ball in his hand. “You were pitching well in the game against Waseda, too.”
Almost instantly, Eijun freezes. “What?”
“The game against Waseda, where you fought for the fall Emperor's Cup,” repeats Miyuki, standing, and some of the juvenile cheek from earlier has disappeared. “You did well then and you’re doing well today too.” Miyuki pushes away his headgear, unveiling those calculating amber eyes again. “So what happened in between?”
Something begins pounding inside of Eijun’s head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Sawamura,” Miyuki says, eyes narrowing, and Eijun is very sure he never gave this guy his name. Somehow, that’s not what freaks him out most. “Your pitching has been all over the place since that game. What’s going on?”
Eijun has no idea what to say, not when Miyuki’s gaze is so intense. His knuckles are white around the ball he’s holding and he should probably walk away but Miyuki continues. This time, his voice is softer. “You know what happened wasn’t your fault, right?”
“What?” Eijun parrots, wide-eyed. He takes a step forward, helplessly curious. “Were you at that game?”
“In a sense, yes.” What’s that supposed to mean? Miyuki slides his glove off and drops it. “I saw your last pitch.”
Ah. The last pitch. “If you saw my last pitch,” says Eijun slowly, irritation slowly returning, “then you must’ve seen that I shook Araki-senpai’s sign right before it.”
“I did.”
“And you still don’t think it was my fault?” Somehow, even though he’s thoroughly furious, Eijun can’t help but be baffled.
“I don’t,” Miyuki answers firmly. His hair is mussed from the headgear he pulled off, long locks grazing his neck. “Your last pitch was as good as it could be.”
I know, Eijun wants to say, teeth clenched over his bottom lip. I know. And that’s what makes it all the more infuriating. Because it was perfect, and it still hadn’t been enough. “If I hadn’t shaken his signs, maybe we could’ve won.”
“That’s a maybe,” Miyuki reminds him. “You made a good call and had the right pitch. What happened was unfortunate, but there’s no guarantee you would’ve won with whatever your catcher called.” There’s nothing Eijun has in response to that. Miyuki raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve made a mistake of this caliber. So why are you so hung up on this one?”
Eijun has no idea how Miyuki knows that much but he’s right. Undeniably right. And Eijun is aware of that, fully aware that’s the logical conclusion and that he should put this all behind him and keep moving. He’s conquered worse in the past and triumphed over similar situations as well. So this… this silly incident, why was it tormenting him so much?
He knows the answer to it, but there’s no way he’s going to admit that aloud, and to a stranger no less.
“That’s none of your business,” he snarls, picking up the rosin bag and peeling off his glove. He pushes past Miyuki towards the gates. “Thanks for the catching but if you’ll excuse me, I have—“
“It doesn’t have to do with the Waseda game at all, does it?” Eijun halts mid-step, neck snapping back to see Miyuki raising an eyebrow. He’d be the kind of guy girls find pretty, if it weren’t for the sharp glint in his eyes. “You’re scared of something else entirely.”
“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eijun glares, hands curling into fists and nails digging deep into his palms.
But Miyuki merely chuckles, leaning back onto his heels. “You’d be surprised,” he admits, and strangely, it doesn’t sound as mocking as it should be. “I know that you weren’t handed that ace position in high school, how you suffered through mistakes and the yips, and how you toiled to push through it all.” Miyuki takes another step closer, reaching further in Eijun’s head. “I know that you’re not great at reading the room, that you don’t realize what your presence does to others.” He looks so genuine. Maybe that’s what makes Eijun most mad.
“I know you came to Meiji because you were afraid of where the draft would take you, and if you were ready to be signed to a larger playing field.” That single admission sends a sharp tremor down Eijun’s back, and he recoils, on the edge of snapping. There were so many impossible things Miyuki seemed to know, but that was… Eijun hadn’t told anyone that. It was something he barely acknowledged himself. “I know that you don’t let things get to you easily. I know that, which is why I refuse to believe that you’re beating yourself up solely because you shook your catcher’s signs.”
Eijun reaches forward, unable to restrain himself any longer, and lets his fingers curl around Miyuki’s shirt collar, pushing him back towards the mound. “Oh, so you think you know everything about me?” He seethes, shaking the unperturbed stranger. “I have no idea who you are but you don’t know a thing about my life. What, do you think you’re some sort of omniscient god?”
“Close,” Miyuki grins cheekily, taking Eijun aback. “Though not quite.” And before Eijun can sock him in his infuriatingly perfect face and slap that smirk off, several things happen far too quickly to process. There’s a flash of blinding light and an abrupt gust of wind, forcing Eijun to close his eyes. Still, his grip on the stranger doesn’t loosen. It just seems… lighter?
When Eijun blinks his eyes open, Miyuki is hovering a couple feet off the ground, held by a pair of shimmering pale gold wings that unfurled from his back. “I’m his gift to you,” says Miyuki, raising a finger to his lips, brazen smirk still in place, “but that’s supposed to be a secret.”
Belatedly startled, Eijun releases his hold on Miyuki. This guy was flying! With wings! He takes several steps back, thoughts in a whirlpool as he tries to process what’s in front of him. “You—” He stumbles over his words. “What are you?”
Miyuki’s lips twist into something like distaste. He floats down, feet landing gracefully on the mound. Only then does Eijun notice his attire has changed too, cap gone and practice wear morphed into shimmering white slacks and a blazer. “You know, I thought it was pretty obvious when I pulled out the wings and everything.”
“No, it was not!” Eijun snaps, the shock of the situation slowly settling in. Wings! Those really were wings! And they appeared out of nowhere!
Miyuki releases an unnecessarily long sigh and crosses his arms, brows coming together into a small frown. “I’m an angel,” he says flatly, like he can’t believe he’s explaining this. “Specifically, your angel.”
“My angel,” Eijun iterates dumbly. He must be missing something here, he must be, because there was no way this was all real. He should’ve known with Miyuki’s spectacular catching abilities and rounded knowledge of Eijun’s pitches. No one like that could be real. Obviously, obviously he must be dreaming.
“My name is Miyuki Kazuya.” The corner of Miyuki’s mouth twitches. “And I’m your guardian angel.”
Eijun blinks. Miyuki doesn’t back off. Nor do those very very real-looking wings unfolded behind him. In a daze, he pinches his thigh. Nothing changes, but he sees Miyuki snicker.
“I’m going crazy,” Eijun announces after a long period of silence. A giggle bubbles up his throat and he clutches the sides of his face, squatting down. “Yeah, that would explain it. I haven’t been sleeping enough and I haven’t been eating properly and if this isn’t some dream, it’s got to be a hallucination that’s a consequence of all my poor life choices. Yes, that’s exactly what this is.”
To his surprise, Miyuki squats as well and Eijun freezes. Oh, god, this guy was still here. Do hallucinations not disappear? Was he a delusion? “You’re right about this being a result of your poor life choices,” Miyuki responds, rolling his eyes, “though calling me a consequence is quite insulting, frankly. I consider myself more of a… blessing.”
“A blessing,” Eijun repeats, still rattled by the whole experience. I have an angel? Angels are real? I played catch with my angel? “Sorry,” he holds up a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free one, “you’re going to have to give me a second.”
“However long you need,” weirdo-turned-catcher-turned-angel responds. Not that he couldn’t simultaneously be all three.
“So just- just to recap here,” Eijun begins slowly, trying to sequence the events that unfolded in the past couple minutes, “you’re not a baseball player.”
“No, not officially.”
“You’re actually an angel.”
“Yes.”
“You’re my guardian angel.”
“Glad to see you’re catching on.”
So everything he’s witnessed for the last hour was indeed real. Eijun’s not sure if he should be relieved or highly, highly concerned. “And you’re here for what, exactly?”
“Reasons.”
Reasons. Like that explained anything. “Which are?” Eijun presses.
Something illegible flashes across Miyuki’s eyes, before settling into his usual cheek. “I think we should have this conversation a bit more comfortably, don’t you think?” He grins, and his wings disappear into his back. “Lead the way home.”
“Lead the way home ?” Eijun gawks at him in a mixture of fascination and horror. He thinks he could probably rival a parrot with how much he’s been repeating words in shock. “What?”
“You want answers, don’t you?” Miyuki wiggles his eyebrows tauntingly and Eijun grits his teeth because of course he does. Who wouldn’t in this sort of situation?
“Fine.” Eijun massages his temples. Today had been too long of a day. “Fine, you can come along. But you better answer all my questions, Miyuki Kazuya,” Eijun glowers, placing his glove under his armpit and walking towards the practice nets, “and explain what the hel- heck you’re doing here.”
———
The apartment is just as awful as Kazuya thought it would be.
“I can’t believe you still live like this,” he says, scrunching his nose and snickers when Sawamura gives him a withering glare.
“No one’s stopping you from leaving,” Sawamura hisses, still wearing a pissy cat-face that makes Kazuya grin. Sawamura kicks his shoes off haphazardly before trudging into his apartment and grumbling something under his breath. Kazuya quietly moves them in line with his own.
“I thought you were the one who wanted answers.”
“You—” It’s fun riling him up. Kazuya can use that. “Fine. Let’s talk.” He follows Sawamura into the kitchen where he pulls out two mugs from the cabinet and a container of tea bags. He fills up an electric kettle with water and lets it boil before turning to Kazuya. “So what’s your deal? Why are you here? What are you even supposed to do?” Sawamura leans back on the countertop, still eyeing Kazuya suspiciously.
Kazuya shifts his weight to one leg, chewing his bottom lip. Well.
In all honesty, Kazuya knew it wasn’t the best of introductions. Impactful? Yes. Proper? By no means. Though, when has Kazuya ever went by the book? So long as it led to the same outcome, it didn’t really matter to him at all.
Truthfully, Kazuya didn’t think he’d have to resort to such extremes. Not just greeting his human face to face, but the act of descending in the first place. For as long as Kazuya had watched over him, Sawamura had been the living embodiment of the sun. He was passionate and loud and burned through, no matter how daunting the walls in front of him seemed. Sure, he needed a couple pushes here and there, nothing Kazuya couldn’t easily take care of, but this. This wasn’t something he’d anticipated spiraling out of control. He had such faith that Sawamura could overcome this as well, just like all the others, that Kazuya didn’t ever plan to think what he’d do when Sawamura couldn’t.
It was a miscalculation on his part. He frowns. “I don’t know,” Kazuya shrugs, picking at the end of his blazer. He glances around, wincing when he sees sweatpants and shirts strewn over the couch, and half-empty packets of shrimp chips on the ground next to a laptop.
The blasé answer only seems to piss Sawamura off more. His face is too perspicuous of his feelings, and Kazuya honestly thinks it’s a wonder that he’s been hiding from his team for so long. “Just because you’re an angel doesn’t mean I won’t sock you in your stupid—”
“I’m not lying.” Kazuya gestures at the beeping kettle Sawamura’s ignored in his irritation and he hastily goes to address it.“I don’t really know exactly what I’m going to do. And the part I do know, I can’t really tell you, because that would defeat the purpose of this whole thing.”
Sawamura huffs, dropping two tea bags into the mugs. “Well, just my luck to get a guardian angel that’s good for absolutely nothing.”
“Hey, hey now—”
“Prove it.” Sawamura puffs up his chest. “Prove that you’re a real guardian angel.”
Of all the things Kazuya expected to hear, that was not it. “What?”
“Prove that you’re a real guardian angel,” repeats Sawamura. “You haven’t done anything ‘guardian angel-y’ yet. How do I know you’re legit?”
“I literally just unfurled wings for you.”
“That means nothing,” Sawamura dismisses, waving his hand. “Don’t you have powers? Can’t you do something?”
Lord. Kazuya sighs and clears his throat. “I can only use my powers in times of need.”
Then Sawamura straightens, eyes brightening. “Oh, then you can fix my shower!”
“Fix your what?”
“Sometimes there’s no hot water,” explains Sawamura, gesturing in the direction of the bathroom with a thumb. Kazuya doesn’t even want to let himself imagine what it looked like in there. “Actually, most of the time there’s no hot water. Anyway, if you’re an angel, you should be able to fix my shower.”
Kazuya gapes, stupefied. There was no way he was serious. “You know I’m not some sort of genie, right? Or your local plumber, for that matter.”
“So you can’t fix the shower.”
For all that Kazuya was familiar with Sawamura’s ridiculously anal-retentive personality, it was infuriatingly difficult to be on the receiving end of it. “No, I can’t fix your hot water problem—”
“You pulled a catcher’s glove out of nowhere!”
So he did. Kazuya winces. “That was different—”
“You said times of need!”
“How exactly is this a time of need?”
“You’re going to let your poor human freeze to death by constantly taking cold showers?” Sawamura gasps theatrically, leaving Kazuya even more speechless. “Risking my physical and mental condition? Some guardian angel you are, Miyuki Kazuya!”
Oh God. Kazuya blinks, pinching the bridge of his nose. There really was a learning curve to knowing something and actually applying it. “Look, if we really want to talk about ‘proving to be a guardian angel’”—Kazuya seriously can’t believe the words coming out of him—“then maybe we should start with the fact that I know a ridiculous amount of things about you.”
Immediately, the smug look on Sawamura’s face morphs into something guarded. Good. At least Kazuya has his attention now. “I wasn’t wrong about any of the things I said earlier, was I?”
“Well, no,” Sawamura admits, and that’s a start. His face contorts, almost looking constipated. He plucks the two tea bags out, tossing them into the trash. “Actually, it was really creepy how you knew all that.” Sawamura considers him for a long moment. “Can you read minds?”
Why, of all the possible things, is that the conclusion he comes to? “What? No.”
“Are you reading my mind right now?”
“No. No, I am not reading your mind. What I do isn’t reading minds.”
“So what is it that you do?”
Ugh. Kazuya doesn’t really want to get into this. “It’s complicated angel stuff,” he tries to brush it off, knowing that Sawamura will probably never let it go. “Anyway, the point is that I can’t read minds. At all. It’s more like… feeling, I guess.”
That piques Sawamura’s interest. He hands a mug over to Kazuya, placing his own on his little dining table as he sits. “Feeling?”
“It’s hard to explain. Sort of like an empath, in human terms.” Kazuya lets his face soften a bit, even though he really shouldn’t be disclosing this. “Right now, I can tell that you’re confused and still mildly suspicious of me, which is understandable. But you’re also not… uncomfortable with me.” When Sawamura makes an indignant squeak in the back of his throat, Kazuya knows he’s hit the nail on the head.
“So you basically know everything that’s ever happened to me, know all my deepest darkest secrets, and are now telling me that you know exactly how I feel?” Sawamura blanches, looking more and more worn with every word.
“Well, I don’t know exactly how you feel, it’s more of an assumption based on—”
“That’s not the point!” Sawamura groans, head hanging low. He slumps against the table, temple resting against the wood. “Ugh. This is ridiculous. I can’t believe this is happening.”
Kazuya studies him for a second before sliding into the seat across from him. “Hey,” he begins quietly, looking at the kid in front of him carefully. Sawamura looks up, chin still flat on the table, with a small pout. It’s kind of cute. “I know this was all really out of the blue but I promise, I’m not here to make your life difficult.” That statement is entirely genuine and Sawamura must be able to tell because he sits up, brows a little at ease. Kazuya can quite literally feel the tension leaving him. “If anything, my goal is to make it easier because let’s be honest, things aren’t going so great right now, are they?”
“No,” Sawamura bemoans miserably. “So, what? You’re going to magically make my life better? You’re supposed to be my therapist now?”
“Er, not really.”
“I’m assuming you won’t give me some money either.”
“Nope,” laughs Kazuya, taking a sip of his tea. It’s brewed perfectly. He never thought he’d get the chance to try it. “Believe me, money won’t solve your problems.”
Sawamura grouches under his breath, something vaguely like “what would you know?”. Then he raises a shrewd eyebrow. “Anyway, aren’t you supposed to be ‘watching from above’ or something?” He gestures broadly, making quotation marks with his fingers. “Isn’t that what angels do?”
“For the most part,” admits Kazuya. He can tell him this much, before Sawamura explodes out of curiosity. “But we make exceptions, based on the circumstances.”
“And I’m an exception,” Sawamura says slowly, sucking in his cheek, “because, as you said, ‘things aren’t going so great right now’.” His lips twist and he glares at the tea in his hands, like it was the bane of his existence. “So you’re just going to stay here now? And do… whatever it is that you do?”
“Yes,” Kazuya chirps, mildly stunned at how smoothly this had gone, and Sawamura groans. “Just consider me a roommate.”
“More like a leech. I suppose you won’t even help with rent,” he mumbles back, setting down his mug with a thud. “Not exactly sure how you’re going to be helpful that way but fine. Fine.” Sawamura wrinkles his nose at Kazuya in a way that he probably intends to be intimidating but it just looks funny. “It doesn’t look like you’re going to leave if I ask you to anyway, from the looks of it. Just- just do what you want, and hopefully don’t make my life worse in the process.”
Sawamura says it carelessly, just another gruff complaint that mirrors his apprehension, but it still sits badly in Kazuya’s chest. Just the thought of potentially sending Sawamura worse off tugs at something cold and ugly in his gut, especially when the guilt and fate of the current situation is still in his hands. His fingers are tight around the ceramic mug, staring intently at the clear-gold liquid. Kazuya’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t even notice it when Sawamura drops a futon right on top of the living room carpet.
“You can sleep here,” Sawamura nods toward it a bit begrudgingly, scratching the back of his neck, and Kazuya walks over. “Sorry it’s not that great, I don’t know what angels sleep on, if you guys sleep in the first place but…” He’s taller than Kazuya expected, standing several centimeters over him. He must’ve gained some height the summer before university.
“You know,” Kazuya starts, words heavy on his tongue, “I wasn’t actually supposed to tell you that I’m an angel.”
“You’re not?” Sawamura raises a skeptical eyebrow. He has freckles dotted across his face, creeping in as the warmer seasons did. “Well, you did mention that it was supposed to be a secret. So why did you, then?”
“Because I don’t like playing by the book,” Kazuya replies nonchalantly. “I think you don’t gain anything if you don’t take any risks.” And, well, it wouldn’t hurt to be a little honest, would it? “I also did it because I didn’t want to lie to you.”
“You—” That does it. Sawamura blinks, stunned. “What?”
“I know you,” Kazuya says slowly, smirk curling into a soft smile. “I mean that in the least creepy way possible, by the way. But I know you, and it wouldn’t matter if I had the greatest intentions in the world, you would hate me if I deceived you.”
Sawamura, surprisingly, doesn’t say anything for a long time. Then he huffs, scratching his nose just below where the sunburnt, peeling skin is. “Maybe you aren’t that terrible at your job,” he snickers, giving Kazuya a soft smile that startles him. “Thanks for being honest, even though you’re still keeping a lot from me!” This accusation is light, teasing. Kazuya feels a bit warmer already.
“At least I told you about that!” Kazuya sings back, grabbing a pillow off the couch.
“Good night, Miyuki.” Sawamura flicks the light switch off and briefly, Kazuya catches a glimpse of those infamous lion eyes. Sometimes, he wishes he had the luxury of seeing them behind a plate, during the heat of a game and when tension was at an all time high. “I’ll see you in the morning, I guess.”
Kazuya looks away before he lets those fantasies wander. “You too, Sawamura, you too.”
———
There is breakfast on the table set for two when Eijun steps out of the bathroom from washing his face. The hot water had surprisingly been consistent this morning, and Eijun suspects Miyuki might have had something to do with it. His query all but vanishes when the aroma sends him drooling on the spot, and he gapes as Miyuki sets a plate of grilled mackerel down for the both of them, surrounded by miso soup and tamagoyaki.
“You- you made this?” Eijun splutters as Miyuki grins proudly at his feast. Oh, were those pickled vegetables? He doesn’t remember buying those.
“No, they’re just another one of your hunger-induced hallucinations,” Miyuki says dryly, placing down the chopsticks. “Just eat, would you?”
“No natto, thank god,” Eijun sighs when he sees the fermented soybean side conveniently missing. Wakana would always bring it, oblivious, and Eijun would smile through his tears as he swallowed it down.
“Didn’t want you to throw up before practice,” Miyuki sneers, but Eijun blinks in pleasant shock. Sure, it was a bit unnerving, but this guy—this angel—he really did know him.
Eijun nearly cries at the taste of the soup, which tastes even better than the one Wakana brings. Guardian angel, huh? He glances at Miyuki, startled to see that he’s staring right back at him. When he raises his eyebrows in askance, Eijun shoots him two very enthusiastic thumbs ups. Maybe he could get used to this.