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Mei brought it up only once. Kazuya had woken up to see Mei sitting on his bed, staring at him with a mildly sullen look.
“I forgot how much humans sleep,” Mei said, sneering without any real heat. “What a waste of time.”
Kazuya rubbed his eyes and sat up. “What’d you do, then? While I was sleeping?”
Mei shrugged, turning away to face the window.
They’d played catch a few days ago and Mei had been in a strange mood ever since. But the whole thing had been his idea. He’d materialized while Kazuya was cooking omurice, Mei’s favorite, and said, “The ones who throw you the ball. Who are they?”
“They’re my pitchers,” Kazuya said, adding oil to the frying pan.
Mei’s eyes narrowed. “Your pitchers?”
Kazuya shrugged. “Yeah,” he said, because it was true. They were his.
“Then what are you?”
“I’m their catcher.”
Then Mei looked even more displeased. He disappeared early that evening and Kazuya ate the omurice alone, thinking distantly that his kitchen table felt bigger than usual.
But the next day Mei showed up at the end of practice wearing a SoftBank uniform, a pitcher’s glove tucked under his arm. Kazuya looked around to make sure the remaining stragglers weren’t paying attention before seizing Mei by the wrist.
“What are you doing?”
“Relax,” said Mei, rolling his eyes. “They can’t see me, remember?”
“Yeah, but—”
“Honestly, Kazuya,” Mei interrupted. He tossed a baseball in the air and caught it. Southpaw, the tactical part of Kazuya’s brain noted. “Don’t you wanna catch my pitch?”
“Do you even know how to pitch a baseball?” Kazuya demanded. “There’s more to it than just chucking it into the air, you know.”
There was a crackle of energy as Mei’s aura flared, blue and seething. “I’m cheating death for you,” he said, “and you think I can’t throw a ball better than your puny human pitcher?”
“Okay, okay,” said Kazuya. “Calm down.”
They went to the field and Kazuya settled behind the plate. The sun was setting behind Mei such that he appeared as a backlit silhouette on the mound, and some feeling of premonition stole over Kazuya right before Mei wound up and released the ball. Kazuya just barely managed to brace himself in time. He fell back on his heels, his heart pounding in his ears.
He could see it so clearly—the batter lunging for the pitch, only to realize the ball had dipped far, far below his swing.
“Do you want to go again?” he rasped when he could find his voice.
“No,” Mei said. There was a strange look on his face. “Like I thought. It’s just a dumb human game.”
Since that day Mei had seemed almost subdued. The morning light slid off the proud contours of his nose, the angle of his cheek, and Kazuya thought for the first time that he looked—tired.
“We all started out as humans,” Mei said. “A long time ago.”
“Do you remember?” Kazuya asked. “Anything from your human life, I mean.”
“No,” said Mei. “But who cares? When you can live forever, everything you want will eventually be yours.”
He was still looking out the window. From the back, he looked human. Uncertain. Kazuya didn’t know the difference.
“I wouldn’t want that,” he said finally, honest because Mei demanded nothing less.
Mei went very still. Then he turned around and Kazuya caught a glimpse of Mei’s preternaturally blue eyes, the most inhuman thing about him, before he looked away and laughed.
“No,” he said. “You wouldn’t. That’s what I like most about you, Kazuya.”