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The text had been sent at four in the morning. That wasn’t altogether surprising, given the difference in time zones. The surprising thing was that the text had come from someone Kazuya hadn’t spoken to in almost three years.
I’m coming back on Thursday. Meet me at the airport?
He let the message sit while he opened a new bag of coffee beans and poured the contents into the grinder, added the fresh grounds into the filter basket. For years he’d drunk instant coffee, dumping spoonfuls of powder into hot water, frugal by nature and by habit developed in his childhood. But then he’d been spoiled against his will on the good stuff, and it was hard to go back, despite everything that had happened afterward.
Anyway, specialty coffee was a small luxury he could now easily afford, and brewing a fresh pot each morning had become a routine he’d found difficult to break, though he was the only one drinking from it now.
Kazuya sipped from his mug, mulling over the text message.
Haneda or Narita? he finally typed out.
He’d barely hit the send button when a reply appeared. Somehow even the notification ping managed to sound annoyed.
The one that’s not an hour away from the city 🙄 Stupid Kazuya. My flight gets in at seven. Take me out to dinner.
All week the brief exchange prodded at Kazuya’s mind, insistent and impossible to ignore, just like the person on the other side of the conversation.
It wasn’t a question of whether he’d go, though figuring out where to eat was a harder decision to make, and Kazuya thought it was strange, what the mind chose to preserve. He couldn’t remember what he’d eaten for lunch two days ago, or any of his teammates’ birthdays, but he could still write down the entire box score from his last high school baseball game, in which he’d taken home the Koushien banner, and he could remember all of Narumiya Mei’s favorite restaurants, his tendency to pace when he was on the phone, the way he liked to take naps in the sun, like a cat. The quiet sound he always made when he came, startlingly and incongruously soft.
On Thursday Kazuya wrapped a scarf around his neck, thought about packing an extra pair of gloves, reconsidered, and took the train to Haneda.
The snow had caused a slight delay which ended up working in Kazuya’s favor—he reached the international arrivals gate just as Mei’s white-blond head emerged into view.
Kazuya stilled, letting a family pass in front of him. Then a little girl wearing a Fighters hat and her father approached Mei, and Kazuya laughed when Mei bent down to sign the girl’s hat with a pen he’d procured from his pocket, because some things never changed.
Mei looked good, thought Kazuya, watching as the father took a picture of Mei and his daughter flashing peace signs. Of course Kazuya had seen photos of him in the news. Hard not to, if you knew anything about baseball, and Mei had made such an auspicious debut with the Padres after getting called up from Triple-A this season that Kazuya figured it was only a matter of time before Narumiya became a household name like Ichiro, like Matsui, like Ohtani.
But it was one thing to see pictures online and another thing entirely for Mei to be standing close enough that Kazuya could see the way his skin had warmed to the color of honey on toast, could hear Mei’s laugh, loud and youthful. He was struck by the magnitude of how long it’d been since they’d seen each other.
After the first year, Kazuya had wondered if Mei would reach out once San Diego had been eliminated from playoff contention. But he’d heard nothing, and only later found out through word of mouth that Mei had not even returned to Japan, that he’d spent the offseason playing winter ball in the Dominican Republic, wreaking havoc with his changeup and fastball, the latter of which had increased in velocity since he’d gone overseas.
Then the second year Kazuya had been busy with winter training of his own, and enough time had passed that Mei’s absence had dulled into a background thing that flared only if Kazuya dug too deeply. So Kazuya had avoided digging entirely.
And now, well. Kazuya was here, wasn’t he?
The girl put on her hat and Mei reached out to turn the brim sideways, smiling at her before he stood up and patted her on the back. He lifted his chin, scanning the crowd, but Kazuya was standing behind a pillar, hidden from view, and had suddenly forgotten how to work his legs.
For a moment Mei did not move. Then he adjusted the strap of the duffle bag hanging from his shoulder and continued walking toward the exit, his mouth tense, and Kazuya’s legs finally caught up to his brain.
“Mei,” he called out. “Mei!”
Mei turned around and paled, his eyes going wide as he mouthed, Kazuya. As if he had not really believed Kazuya would come, as if he was genuinely surprised that Kazuya did care enough to see him. Kazuya tried not to think about how much that hurt.
“Mei,” he said again. His mouth had gone dry.
Mei cocked his head. Then he said, “Oh my god,” and Kazuya blinked as Mei thrust the duffle bag at his chest, leading the way toward baggage claim. “That was seriously the worst flight of my life. I’ve never heard anyone snore louder than the guy sitting next to me. And the turbulence was so bad that the other guy sitting next to me kept getting up to puke every ten minutes.”
He brushed past Kazuya to seize his luggage off the carousel, and Kazuya could smell his cologne, something smoky, almost bitter, a scent that he didn’t recognize. Mei had put on more muscle in the past few years, Kazuya realized. The heavy wool of his winter coat stretched taut over his shoulders.
“I can’t wait to take a bath when I get back and—” He looked up and noticed Kazuya watching him. “What?”
“Nothing,” Kazuya said mildly, bending down to take one of Mei’s suitcases. “It’s just good to see you, that’s all.”
Something flickered across Mei’s face, too quick for Kazuya to catch. Then he turned away and said, “Anyway, where are we going? I’m starving.”
Kazuya opened his mouth to respond when a phone started ringing.
Mei fumbled through his pockets. “Oh, shit—I have to take this, hang on,” he said, answering the phone. Megumi, he mouthed to Kazuya, who laughed and flagged down a taxi while Mei spoke with his oldest sister.
“Yes, Mom,” said Mei, rolling his eyes as he got into the cab. “No, the flight was terrible.”
“Is she seeing anyone?” Kazuya asked. “Ask her if she still has my number.”
Mei mimed vomiting. “Kazuya says hi, by the way.”
Laughter on the other end, then something that Kazuya didn’t catch but had Mei gagging again and saying, “Gross! I’m not telling him that!”
The phone call took the entirety of the drive to the restaurant. Periodically Mei would blow on his hands in an attempt to warm them up, and Kazuya thought of the spare gloves he’d left behind on his kitchen countertop.
They got out of the car and unloaded the luggage, after which the cab peeled off, leaving the two of them alone on the narrow side street.
Mei surveyed the small, unassuming entrance of the izakaya with a frown.
“Jesus, Kazuya,” he said. “Did you really have to pick this place?”
Most of the restaurants Mei favored required reservations at least a month in advance, and the flight from San Diego to Tokyo was over fifteen hours with at least one layover; Mei would be jet lagged at best, irritable at worst, and he’d always been the kind of person who liked taking the time to dress up before going somewhere nice.
In the end Kazuya had decided on this late-night hole-in-the-wall, which they’d discovered one night and ended up at often to share donburi and shrimp soaked in sweet dashi soy sauce, sometimes hungry after sex and other times just loath to waste precious time spent together sleeping. Back when things had been easier, before the fights had started increasing in frequency and intensity, before Kazuya had said, I’m sorry, and Mei had put an ocean of distance between them.
“Well, let’s go in,” said Mei with a sigh. “At least the food’s always good.”
A waiter sat them at a secluded booth near the back and handed them two menus, before returning with a pot of tea and two cups.
“How’s your dad?” asked Mei, shrugging off his coat while Kazuya poured out tea.
“He’s doing fine,” said Kazuya. “He’s thinking about selling the mill and retiring soon.”
“Good for him.”
“Yeah.”
They lapsed into silence broken only when the waiter came by to take their orders. Kazuya was halfway through reciting their usual before he realized what he was doing and cut Mei a glance. “Sorry—I should’ve asked. Did you want anything else?”
“No,” said Mei, who was staring at Kazuya with an inscrutable look. “That’s fine.”
The waiter left. Kazuya cast about for something to say, unused to this not-quite-tension between them, which wasn’t awkward but certainly wasn’t comfortable.
“I can’t believe you lost the championship because of one pitch,” Mei said, beating him to it. “I had to stay up until four every night to watch, you know. The least you could’ve done was win.”
“You watched my games?”
“Not your games,” snapped Mei. “The Japan Series games.”
“Which I played in,” Kazuya pointed out. “That kind of makes them my games.”
“Whatever,” said Mei, setting down his cup with unwarranted force. He turned his head away, but Kazuya could see the flush spreading across his cheeks.
“I watched yours too,” Kazuya admitted. “All the ones that I could.”
No response. For lack of anything else to do, Kazuya removed his glasses and wiped the lenses on the hem of his sweater.
“If it were me,” Mei said quietly. “I would have struck him out. I would have won you a ring.”
Kazuya looked up, but Mei was still turned away, his fingers curled tightly around the curve of his mug, white-knuckled and tense.
Top of third in the decisive Game 7 with Yomiuri up 4-3. Hirai, the Giants’ starting pitcher that night, had been dominant during the regular season. But the postseason was always a different game. Players who’d been hitting below two hundred could suddenly homer in every at-bat; underdogs who’d been under 0.500 midway through the season could shut out teams who’d blitzed their way to the playoffs. Kazuya had called for a backdoor slider, Hirai’s specialty, but the pitch had sailed wide and Mima had given the Lions a two-run lead from which Yomiuri had not been able to recover.
“Anyway,” said Mei, visibly forcing himself to relax. “Did you hear about—”
“I know,” Kazuya said, cutting him off. “I thought the same thing. After the game, when I got home. That’s what I was thinking too.”
“Oh,” said Mei, swallowing. “Well. That’s—”
The waiter returned with their food and refilled their pot of tea. Mei’s throat worked as the waiter left, but the moment had passed, and Kazuya leaned back in his seat, his eyes suddenly hot and dry. He was getting tired of moments disappearing, the timing being wrong, of missing opportunities.
“Mei,” he said. “I—”
But Mei was shaking his head. “Not here, Kazuya, okay? Not now.” His voice sounded brittle, rice-paper thin.
The Fighters had approached Kazuya the moment he became eligible for free agency, though Mei had been floating the idea to him long before. Yomiuri had already dropped money on a trade with Hiroshima for a promising young pitcher, but Nippon-Ham needed more firepower in their offensive lineup and had been looking for another catcher. With Kazuya, they could kill two birds with one stone.
The idea had been tempting for a number of reasons. Yet Kazuya had still rejected the offer and opted to stay in Tokyo, citing proximity to his father, which was only partially the truth.
The idea of forming a battery with Mei was intoxicating. It always had been. But by that point their relationship had become so volatile that Kazuya had been afraid of what it could mean for both of their careers.
Okay, Mei had said, when Kazuya called him. He sounded calm enough. I understand.
Four days later, news came out that Narumiya Mei had submitted a request to be posted for the MLB.
Kazuya had been at the grocery store, examining a jar of quince preserves that Mei liked to put on his milk toast, when Sawamura sent him the link to an article: Miyuki-senpai, have you seen this yet?
The jar fell from his hand and shattered on the ground, but Kazuya could do nothing but scan the article, his brain absorbing only snatches of the text: “I’m always chasing my dreams,” said Narumiya-shi, “and my dreams are always getting bigger.”
Everything had been too much between them back then. When things were good, it was almost painful; when things were bad, Kazuya thought sometimes Mei actually did hate him.
The timing just hadn’t been right. Kazuya still believed that, which did nothing to make him feel better now, with Mei sitting across the table, palms digging into his eyes.
They picked at their food, though it was apparent neither of them had any appetite. Mei even offered to split the tab.
It was snowing outside as they turned onto the main street. Already white drifts had formed over the tops of parked cars and pedestrian safety posts. Mei lifted an arm to hail a taxi and suddenly Kazuya felt dizzy with nausea.
No, he thought, I can’t see him walk away from me like this again. I can’t.
He reached out impulsively and took Mei by the wrist. “Mei,” he said urgently. “Listen to me.”
Mei’s hand was cold, the skin chapped dry, and Kazuya resisted the urge to run his thumb over the back of Mei’s knuckles, or take his hand and tuck it in his own pocket to keep it warm. He was acutely aware they were standing in the open street; everything seemed rendered in hyperrealistic detail, the tall lamps casting pools of sodium light on the ground, the stunted urban trees and their slender, drooping branches glazed with ice, and Mei himself, a lone figure standing immobile in the snow, eyes wide and shockingly blue.
Kazuya swallowed hard, suffocating on everything he wanted to say. “I meant it,” he said, but he’d never been good at this; he could only hope that Mei would understand it, the enormity of what he was trying to convey. “It’s really good to see you.”
Mei exhaled. The white cloud of his breath obscured his face for a brief, singular moment.
“Honestly, Kazuya,” he said. Then the corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk so familiar that Kazuya’s chest ached. “You could’ve just said that you missed me.”
“I missed you,” Kazuya said without hesitation. “Mei, I missed you.”
Mei pulled his hand away and turned to go, but he looked back at Kazuya as he got into the taxi.
“Well,” he said, “I don’t leave for spring training until February. Guess that means you have three months to prove it, huh, Kazuya?”