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the passage of time seems to slow after miyuki retires from the baseball team, summer heat lingering in the air and the sun rolling through the sky at quarter pace. days seem longer without training and practice bracketing his daily routine, the shape of the baseball diamond like a physical presence in his life. it takes up space, there even on days he doesn't set foot on the field. that's strange too, koshien dirt still caught in the grooves of his cleats without the familiar tread of seido soil to displace it.
miyuki feels a little like he's half asleep, still caught up in the dream of nationals. he can see the stadium looming around him when he closes his eyes, the close heat of the place burning on his neck, the blue dome of the sky. it feels heavier now than it was then, the culmination of three years of sweat and determination, love expressed in the clean arc of the ball through the air and the bright ring of a bat connecting. the weight of the name miyuki will never bear officially again stitched in blue and gold over the steady beat of his heart.
it's over.
high school baseball, with all its attendant sentiment, a thing fabled by the general public, a thing wreathed in collective nostalgia, the kind of special that comes from being temporary. the end of summer rolls around every year, an endless cycle of seasons, but a high school baseball career can end only once, has a fixed point beyond which it cannot pass. it never felt short while it was happening, miyuki's focus on the next play, the next game, and reaching the end feels almost abrupt. he built something here, with this team and these players, and it's difficult to think of it as something finished, something complete.
there's so much more to do. there are adjustments he wants to make, plays he wants to tweak. furuya's still pushing his max speed, nori's sinker is on the verge of becoming terrifying, and sawamura — well, in some ways, sawamura's always been terrifying. his pitching style is coming together, disruptive and fast-paced, staring batters down with his great sunbeam eyes and miyuki knows first hand how impossible it is to hide from him.
that's something he'll carry too, the image of sawamura on the mound, summer sun heavy on his head and that strange form of his blossoming into the most unpredictable pitches. it's something to see, a series of fluid and overlapping shapes, the late swing of his arm coming down like an imperial decree. seeing it on video doesn't prepare anyone for the reality of it, and there's very little miyuki savors more than the sight of a discomfited batter's back.
it's not that he'll never see it again. miyuki can't quit baseball anymore than he can quit breathing, but it's a moment, a circumstance, a situation whose time has expired. the next time he crouches behind home plate, it won't be sawamura facing him from the mound and it won't be seido's weight settled across his shoulders. it's a more uncomfortable realization than miyuki is willing to admit to anyone, translating to a restlessness that dogs him in quiet moments, stepping out into an empty hallway, the breath of silence between songs on the radio.
it drags him out of bed in the early morning hours, sun a sliver on the horizon, orange-red shine glowing from every mildly reflective surface. habit turns his feet toward the practice fields, the eerie quiet of the dorms settling over him like fog. in less than an hour this place will transform, players crowding one another in the bathroom, shouted arguments and laughter and the clatter of cleats on concrete. for now, miyuki has it to himself, this place he has not yet left, this place that he is leaving.
except — there's someone out on the B field, small and dark against the rising sun as miyuki descends the steps. he should be unidentifiable from this distance, but miyuki would recognize that stride anywhere, even without the dead giveaway of a well-worn tire dragging behind him. miyuki pauses halfway down the steps, breathing in the morning light, the not-quite autumn chill. of course.
sawamura eijun, on the baseball field at dawn, running down whatever problem he's been chewing on. it's a simple solution, inelegant and straightforward, but the sort of relentlessness a pitcher needs. miyuki's grown used it, somehow, sawamura charging ahead like a freight train, the widest, whitest grin and gold sparking lightning in his eyes. from now on, miyuki will only see it from the stands.
miyuki takes a breath, takes another step down. there's a slow renegotiation going on here, the space between the two of them wavering from the surety of the distance between the pitcher's mound and home plate. they've found their rhythm as a battery. they see each other clearly. outside of that box it gets messier, murkier; if miyuki lets the focus shift, what will they see then? they've both got more baseball to play.
he watches sawamura's shadow skim over the field, stretched long and dark by the rising sun. he watches the smooth motor of sawamura's legs, the swing of his arms, listens to the tired thump and drag of the tire behind him. one lap, two, and miyuki turns, starts back up the steps. he can keep this too, this fragile, embryonic moment: the space between what they've been and what they could be bathed in the rosy light of dawn.
*
"shouldn't you be studying for a test or something," sawamura says, much later, yawning into his hands over a load of laundry. his tone and posture don't match, turned naturally and automatically toward miyuki, leaning in a fraction too close. miyuki wonders when he stopped thinking about it. there are a lot of things they haven't really discussed, have never really had to.
"is that any way to talk to your— to me," miyuki says, smooths over the stutter at the end of the sentence because neither captain or catcher are true anymore. he changes the topic. "you're up late."
"i need underwear," sawamura says, and miyuki smiles in spite of himself, bumps sawamura's shoulder on his way past. "if i leave it in the machine someone will just dump it on the floor."
"well, yes," miyuki says, setting his own basket down. "that's generally what happens."
sawamura scoffs, sound nearly lost in the low rumble of the dryers. there's a beat, miyuki transferring his laundry into a washer, and then sawamura says, "it's weird, you know."
miyuki's hands pause. he does know, but he says, "what is?"
"not having you at practice." sawamura's looking at him when he turns, that occasional unnerving clarity he has when he's not obscuring it with pointless noise.
"it's strange not being there," miyuki says, and then, "it's late. shouldn't you be going to bed?"
"weak, miyuki kazuya," sawamura says, but his clothes are all gathered up and he leaves without pressing the topic. the look he tosses over his shoulder stays on miyuki's mind for days, golden-bright and knowing.
*
the season changes very quietly, sunset inching up the days and temperatures sinking. there's no fall season for miyuki this year, nothing left of his seido baseball career but the retirement game on the far-off horizon. the thought sits unsettled in his chest like a solid thing, heavy and off-center. he's never been particularly sentimental, more inclined to move forward than look behind, but this is different. he's grown here, changed here, in ways he hasn't always been able to anticipate. maybe the reluctance to let it go is the final lesson, the last thing to learn. miyuki's never been able to tell until he's pushed through.
maezono's already waxing nostalgic between lessons, sharing anecdotes with classmates at the slightest invitation, and in some ways miyuki envies it. zono is occasionally spectacularly awkward, but he's never had trouble vocalizing his feelings, and sometimes the pride in his voice aches in miyuki's throat. every once in awhile he catches shirasu's eye across the room and they nod, let zono get away with his mild embellishments and wild gesticulating. he never says anything that isn't true, and it doesn't hurt to hear.
shirasu himself is always something of an enigma, a curious combination of mildness and intensity that miyuki's never quite understood but has always been grateful for. he has the sort of solidness that leaves very little room for doubt and it's startling to realize that it's as comforting in the classroom as it was on the field. he shifts between conversational topics with ease, from NPB statistics to what concerts he's hoping to attend to the upcoming athletics festival.
it's not the first one, it happens every year, but like everything else, the athletics festival is a bit strange from the wrong end of the baseball club. miyuki is there when his classmates choose their events, he's there when they assign participants, and he's there to help make banners and signs. his lettering is crooked, handwriting just on the fair side of atrocious, but no one complains. there's a camaraderie that feels strange after nearly three years of ignoring his classmates in favor of the baseball team and he doubts it would surprise anyone that his thoughts are still out on the diamond more often than not.
the steady steam of fall practice games is still going on, players jockeying for position and a place out on the field. there's very little miyuki loves more than that, the thrill of fighting to be the best, and watching it from the sidelines is harder than he thought it would be. he no longer has a place out on that field, so he's here, hand cramping with the number of times he's written go [names of various classmates]!
shirasu seems unbothered, turning out neatly printed do your best! headbands while zono makes slightly awkward conversation with the girl to his left, saying "no, no, no, it's just before prelims right now," accent thick with emphasis. natsukawa yui, seated to his right, smothers a smile with her hand and straightens the stack of finished signs sitting on her desk, her lettering bubbly and clean.
"hey, former captain," she says, catching miyuki's vaguely dissatisfied gaze. he never quite realized how quick on the draw she is before this year, before having her in his class. "what are your thoughts on the new team?"
"well, former manager," he says, an odd sort of routine they've picked up. he's dimly aware that it's probably something like grieving. leaving on a high note is still leaving. he's always known that he isn't the only one, saw her and umemoto and haruno in the office, wreaths of tears and smiles and a thick stack of notebooks, first year managers looking both elated and stricken. "i'd say they still need a lot of work."
"don't get them started," someone calls from the other side of the room, drawing vehement noises of agreement.
"hey now," zono says, and natsukawa laughs over his indignant bluster.
*
sawamura plops himself down beside miyuki at dinner a couple days later, rice piled high in his bowl and an entirely worrisome glint in his eye. "you should come catch for me later," he says without preamble, and miyuki shakes his head.
"you," he says, stops there because that's good enough, that's all he really means. it's taken sawamura longer to ask than miyuki expected, if he's honest.
"me what," sawamura says, two grains of rice stuck to his bottom lip and chopsticks halfway to his mouth.
"you're very predictable," miyuki says, not nearly managing to sound cross about it.
"whatever," sawamura says, shovels a huge slice of curried carrot into his mouth and chews for less time than miyuki thinks he probably should. "so is that a yes? you should, you're probably getting soft."
"very persuasive," miyuki says, dry as the desert. "there are catchers who aren't retired, you know. they're the ones you're going to play with now, so -"
"i know," sawamura says, suddenly quiet, hands still and eyes steady. miyuki fights the urge to look away. "but i'm asking you."
"all right," miyuki says, laughs to cover up the reflexiveness of it. this never quite feels fair but he can't quite manage to say no. "but don't get used to it. and don't make a habit of it."
sawamura grins, brilliant and triumphant, says, "no, no, of course not, promise." miyuki even believes him, probably.
he's still smiling later, in the training hall, leg lifting and body rotating, arm snapping down like a whip. miyuki's missed seeing it, feels the famiilarity of it down to the bone, shifts smoothly in his crouch to compensate for the unpredictable break. the ball smacks into his mitt, a solid, comforting noise. sawamura will never be a power pitcher like furuya, but he's gotten faster, the speed differential with the change-up more pronounced.
"not bad, right?" sawamura's saying, chest puffed out and hands on his hips. "that's grip number four now, you know. number four!"
it hasn't been that long, but miyuki can see the subtle changes in sawamura's pitch, the steady improvement. he's never had to worry about what hands he was leaving the team in, but the confirmation of it is both good and strangely lonely. the team and sawamura both are still changing, still growing, whether miyuki is there to oversee it or not.
"that was a bit high," miyuki says, throwing the ball back, and sawamura squawks, shakes his head.
"it definitely was not, it was perfect," he says. "you really are getting rusty, miyuki kazuya!"
"stop using my full name all the time," miyuki says, more out of habit than anything, scrubs the back of his throwing hand across his mouth to hide his smile. "and don't blame me for your mistakes. come on, give me another one."
sawamura glowers but resets, smile back in place by the time the ball leaves his hand.
half an hour later, miyuki calls a halt, feeling warm and loose and a lot like he wants to touch the sweat-damp fall of sawamura's hair. that he pushes aside, tossing the ball back into the crate. sawamura's coming along fine. miyuki's missed watching his progress from up close, as little as he ever wants to admit it, but there's nothing to worry about.
"thanks," sawamura says, from right beside him, and miyuki does his best not to jump. he sure can be sneaky for someone so loud. he looks like he's waiting for something, head tilted to the side and eyes on miyuki's face, but he takes a step back when miyuki doesn't move. "you better be ready," he says, tucking his glove under his arm. "i'm still going to kick your ass at the athletics festival."
"yeah, sure," miyuki says. "i'll look forward to it."
*
the day of the festival dawns bright and clear, wispy clouds sailing high in the serene blue of the sky. the temperature is just barely warm, perfect for a day of running around outdoors and yelling a lot. miyuki squints up into the sun at opening ceremonies, tuning out the pompous nattering of the principal. speeches at school events are only ever superfluous, especially in the face of good weather and a restless student body. still, miyuki sings along properly when the brass band plays the school song, hand over heart, tips of his fingers resting where the name would be stitched on his game uniform.
the intra-club relay race is always first, the only real chance seido's other sports clubs ever have to outshine the baseball team. seido's a baseball school; everyone knows it. miyuki has no idea if anyone resents it, can't really imagine it if so. baseball as a pillar of faith, the central fact of seido life is how it's always been, how it's meant to be. separating the two is impossible, railing against it is pointless.
this year, the race is less of a two dog fight without kuramochi leading off for the baseball club, the track and field sprinter surging into the lead. the other teams fight back gamely, sawamura's voice lifting cleanly above the clamor, shouting, "you can do better than that, seto!" he really is that loud; it's not that miyuki's listening for him, that his ears are somehow tuned to his frequency. everyone can hear him and the first year seems to run harder at sawamura's urging.
they lose anyway, a respectable third, though no one can tell from the amount of noise the team makes, the standard mix of encouragement and heckling. miyuki's never run that particular gauntlet of backslapping, his sprint times never impressive enough to make the relay team, but there's a strange sort of affection for it turning in his veins anyway. retired or not, this is still his team, will always be his team.
most events after that are separated by grade and class, miyuki only belatedly understanding how many he really agreed to participate in. it's payback, someone explained, for everything the baseball team's missed out on. between the three of them, the former regulars are represented in nearly every single event. natsukawa claps him on the shoulder, says "go out there and get them, former captain!"
miyuki's sides are aching by the time they hit the midway point, half from exertion and half from laughing too much. shirasu's meticulous grace translates from right field with unsurprising ease but the same can't be said for either zono or miyuki himself. miyuki doesn't remember who decided they would be the best possible class representatives for the three-legged race but by the time they stumble over the finish line, red-faced and disheveled from falling down no less than three times, he has to concede that whoever it was was probably correct for sheer entertainment value alone.
on the sidelines, apparently spared a similar fate by their own classmates, kuramochi and nori are slumped against one another, laughing so hard that tears are streaming from the corners of their eyes. next to them, nabe has a polite hand held over his mouth. "sadists," miyuki says, from his not entirely comfortable spot on the ground, zono's wheezing loud in his ear. nabe's shoulders start to tremble and miyuki shakes his head, tries not to smile.
"good job," natsukawa says, the half-hidden gleam of her eyes bright with mirth as she leans down to help detach his and zono's conjoined legs. "dead last, very nice."
"i hate all of you," zono says, and she laughs, sound silvery and clear.
they acquit themselves marginally better in most other events, at least; scarce at class activities or not, none of them are going to let anyone accuse the baseball club of not trying. that's a point of pride, always will be. seido's a baseball school, and no one works harder. they do all right, but in the end it's kuramochi up on the winner's platform to accept the trophy for his class, obnoxious laugh floating out over the crowd.
everyone's a little worn out by closing ceremonies, but there's one last thing, the group dance, classes forming up into neat columns. seniors start first, setting off a slow wave of overlapping rounds of dance, spreading around the perimeter of the quad from class to class. it's not too difficult, doesn't change too much year-to-year, and miyuki manages not to embarrass himself too badly with his largely indifferent effort. natsukawa is pulling zono through it with aplomb the next row over; shirasu is out of miyuki's line of vision but is no doubt doing fine. if miyuki lets his eye wander down through the rows of classes he can pick out various former and current members of the baseball club.
asou's posturing is easy to spot, higasa cutting a surprisingly sharp figure not too far away. down the line, kominato looks a bit more like he's getting swung around by an over enthused partner than anything else, and furuya is, predictably, shuffling like he's half-asleep. almost exactly diagonally across the quad, there's sawamura, step smooth and sure. he's dancing with haruno, her hand nervous and light on his wrist. he says something and they both laugh, last trace of awkwardness melting off into something easier, something familiar.
the wave of fondness catches miyuki by surprise, welling up hotter and brighter than the the cool autumn sun above them. it's nearly unbearable, makes him want to laugh with the pressure of it. he smiles at his partner apologetically as he stumbles over her foot, turns his face up to the sky and lets it wash over him.
clean-up goes fast, rafts of students working together smoothly after having spent the day in good-natured competition, and if miyuki slips away a little early no one seems to notice. he makes his way back to the dorms on his own, feet scuffing at the familiar path, thoughts caught up with the ache lingering beneath his skin. it's nothing new, really; there's just more space for it to take up while there's a temporary baseball-diamond-shaped hole in miyuki's daily life.
there were always more pressing things to attend to before, the team and his captaincy, and the difficulty here is admitting that those things are gone, miyuki's focus a ship unmoored. facing sawamura on the mound was in a sense the purest expression of his feelings possible, and that's finished. whatever else he does or doesn't do with sawamura won't change that.
it's a thought that sticks with him through the weekend, brings dreams of the heat on the field at koshien. his cleats in the dirt and the sun pressing down, space distorting in time with the troubled beat of his heart. sawamura's eyes beaming bright from the mound, slipping in and out of focus like a faulty camera lens while miyuki tries to adjust the focal point. the name on his chest shines, blue and gold, a promise kept. which way, to keep him in focus? closer? farther? miyuki wakes with a dry mouth and heavy eyes, sleep grit caught in his eyelashes.
*
on monday, miyuki lingers after classes end, chin in his hand and gaze trained out the window. it's bright out today too, sun falling at an angle that turns everything golden and glowing. the baseball fields aren't visible from here, but miyuki knows how they look like this, the warm light of the green, each blade of grass with its own shine.
zono and shirasu exchange glances and leave him be; natsukawa touches his shoulder on the way out and says nothing. eventually, the classroom empties. but it's only quiet for a few minutes and then there's sawamura, sudden and loud, popping through the doorway saying, "oh, there you are."
miyuki blinks and looks up, the afterimage of the sun like silvery lines on the backs of his eyelids, shining briefly on sawamura's face. speak of the devil. "yes," he says, "i am here."
sawamura rolls his eyes, makes his way into the classroom. "hahah, you're hilarious. anyway, you should come help out at practice today. you're starting to look rusty, were you always that slow?" he's bright-eyed, the curve of his mouth impish, expecting to get away with something.
"wow," miyuki says, eyebrows arching, "what a rude underclassman."
"kuramochi-senpai smoked you guys," sawamura says, "but he's still worse at the dance thing than zono-senpai, i was surprised."
it takes miyuki a moment to remember exactly what that looked like last year, kuramochi a frenetic jumble of overeager limbs, and then he laughs. "well, at least it's not a waltz or anything."
"what really," sawamura says, that curious tilt of his head. "do you even know how to waltz?" he's doing that thing again, leaning in just a little too far, doing it like it's natural.
rationally, this is where miyuki should step back — pause, reassess, tell sawamura sure, i'll stop by practice, you go on ahead. but he's thinking about sawamura out on the quad yesterday, laughing through the turn-step-turn with the sun in his hair and haruno's hand on his his wrist, so what miyuki does is say, "want me to show you?"
sawamura opens his mouth and then stops, like he was expecting something else, body braced for something sharper, something sarcastic. "what," he says.
"i can show you," miyuki repeats, standing up. his is the only desk not put away for the day so there's plenty of room, the floor light-washed and clear. "it's not that hard."
"please," sawamura scoffs. "like i didn't see you the other day, you have less rhythm than — than a paper bag." he still looks suspicious but he doesn't move away when miyuki steps in.
"i don't even know what that means," miyuki says. "but you don't need rhythm, it's a three count. i know you can count."
sawamura scowls but hesitates, that familiar, stubborn set of his mouth sending something warm and heavy thumping in miyuki's chest. it's all right. this is a choice: something ending, something beginning. miyuki doesn't need to weigh the value of either.
"it's fine," he says. "it's just — here, give me your hands, it's probably easier."
"whatever," sawamura says, but his shoulders loosen and his hands are warm and firm in miyuki's grasp.
"all right, so left foot first — my left. i'm going to step forward so you're going to step back -"
"why do i have to step back —"
"come on," miyuki says, half-choked with affection. stubborn little jerk. "if you just learn it we can switch, it doesn't matter."
"all right," sawamura says, not quite pliant, but he steps back, eases into the flow of it. it's a simple dance, a basic box step waltz, something miyuki learned in grade school. they stumble more than once, bump knees and brush feet, but it's the sort of thing sawamura learns fast and miyuki is used to leading him.
it's not quite a translation of their field synergy, some permutation of their battery dynamic applied to a thing decidedly not baseball, but it almost feels like it could be. miyuki feels that same kick in his pulse, the image of sawamura with his finger raised to the sky burned deep into his memory, the chemical reaction of one out singing out every pore. they have no more outs left, but there's this, there's more. miyuki's starting to understand.
"see," he says, looking at sawamura's moue of concentration, the sunlight through the classroom windows casting a golden halo around his head. "not so hard."
it's not. miyuki's chest is easing with with every step. why was he making this so difficult? sawamura's right here. miyuki can see him just fine. they're moving together as easily as they ever have. sawamura looks up then, catches miyuki's eyes on him.
"miyuki kazuya," he says, always understanding faster than miyuki expects him to, "if this is a confession it's a really crappy one."
miyuki stumbles to a stop, startled laugh tumbling out of his mouth even as sawamura steps on his foot. of course. "well then," he says, steadies himself. leans in, slow, watches sawamura's eyes widen and then close. the press of their mouths is gentle, not quite hesitant, a confirmation. miyuki breathes in the closeness, the heat of it, fits his palm to the tender curve of sawamura's neck, kisses him again. it's easy, easier than he thought.
"better?" he says, smile catching on sawamura's lip.
they're too close for sawamura to glare, for miyuki to catch more than the shift of his eyes. "maybe," he says.
"i could try again," miyuki says, and sawamura leans away, claps his hand over miyuki's mouth.
"you haven't even said anything," he says, scowl glowing red and ruddy on his cheeks. "you could do things properly for once, you know."
"it's not like you don't know," miyuki says, his most infuriatingly reasonable tone, smiling into sawamura's palm.
"i don't know if you don't say it," sawamura says, insistent.
"well," miyuki says, reaching up to pull sawamura's hand away. "not everyone can just say things like you."
"honestly," sawamura says, glare bouncing harmlessly off the side of miyuki's face. "you're so difficult — you're not the only one who's sad, you know! it's fine to admit it, i mean -"
"all right," miyuki says, soft. "i'm sad."
"it's not like — what." miyuki can't quite help laughing at that, sawamura's loud mouth caught mid-sentence, shocked soft and round. miyuki wants to kiss him again, but that can wait, a little.
"i'm sad," he repeats, watching the rapid shift of emotion across sawamura's face. "i liked playing with you, and i'm going to miss it."
sawamura straightens, shoulders squaring, and for a moment miyuki thinks about him stepping out on the field, that same steadfast gaze, the determined jut of his chin. "thank you for these two years," he says. "i came to this school because i wanted to see how i would develop if i pitched to you and i've grown so much because i did."
"stop," miyuki says, swallowing to keep his throat from closing. sawamura and his strange bouts of formality, his big gestures and bigger heart. miyuki laughs again, mostly because he can't help it, only a little to hide the suspicious watering of his eyes.
"i'm serious," sawamura says, jumping halfway to indignant, and miyuki puts his hands on his shoulders, presses his lips to sawamura's temple, soft hair and warm skin.
"i know," he says. "thank you." sawamura relaxes, grumbling, lets miyuki kiss him again, mouth slow and sweet. there are things he should say, but they have time. maybe only a little, before miyuki steps out into the wider world for good, but it's all right. they will, miyuki's realizing, with the the sort of wondering rush he gets from solving someone else's pitch calling, be fine. the simplicity of their battery is gone, done and dusted, but this was never going to be the end.