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"Okumura Koushuu, from Daikyou Senior," he announces, in a quiet voice. "I play catcher."
Not an I want to play catcher, and Miyuki can’t help but raise an eyebrow, standing where he is in line with the rest of the team as they watch the first year induction. Two years ago, standing in their position, his hands had been trembling, nervous energy simmering under his skin. Kids were getting brave these days, and he shakes his head as amusement tugs at the corner of his lip.
He hears a huff from Kuramochi beside him, and a sharp elbow digs into his ribs for good measure.
Miyuki eases into the dining room seat with a wince, and stretches out over the backrest. “Ah, man.”
“What’s up with you?” Kuramochi asks, between mouthfuls of rice. It’s his second bowl already; Shirasu is already on his third. At least that’s one bonus to entering their final year—adjusting back to three bowls of rice per meal starts to be less of a challenge, and more of a resigned necessity.
“Tired,” Miyuki mumbles to the ceiling, head tipped back over the seat. “Getting old.”
“The new first years are full of energy,” Shirasu admits, from somewhere next to Kuramochi.
Miyuki laughs, a soft wheezing sound. “That’s one way to put it.”
Not a lie. The first years are, well, interesting. It’s not like Miyuki has ever been told that he’s easy to get along with, mind you, but that Okumura is giving everyone else a run of their money (well, aside from Tanba perhaps, but even he gave up the grudge in the end). In practice, he’s been feeling an odd, prickly sensation on the back of his neck and every time he’s turned around to glance for the culprit, it’s been Okumura watching him. Unflinching and unapologetic, he watches Miyuki with a gaze that borders on scrutiny rather than curiosity or admiration.
He looks like he’d rather take Miyuki’s place on field, than ask him for advice. What a vicious underclassman.
“I prefer the top bunk,” Okumura had said, almost immediately upon entering their shared dorm room. It wasn’t so much a challenge than simply matter-of-fact, and his voice had been mild but Miyuki had floundered momentarily at the abruptness.
“Yeah, alright,” he had replied after a pause, giving a one-shouldered shrug. No skin off his back anyway—he’s been taking the bottom bunk for the past two years, and another year wasn’t going to hurt. It’s tradition at this point. “Go ahead.”
And Okumura had nodded, and settled right in.
It’s a cycle that happens every year, newcomers testing their mettle against the tried and true veterans. Everyone’s trying harder, determined to get into first string for the year’s worth of games to come. He’s never had to fight to be on first string, not tooth and nail like the rest of them—though whether he’s had it easy is another question altogether. But who knows.
Miyuki scrub his hands over his face and finally start digging into his bowl of rice, as Shirasu gets up to fetch his fourth bowl.
Things are changing.
---
“Miyuki Kazuya, right?”
Miyuki peels his face off of his textbook, (Kuramochi sneaks a glance down: page fifty-six of Biology in Focus, fourth edition) and glances up blearily. His glasses sit crooked on his face, and he adjusts them with one hand. “Uh. Yes?”
Kuramochi sits, slouched against the back of his chair as Miyuki stares at him with a look that slides from polite confusion, to one that a guy might have while staring at a particularly ugly specimen from one of the glass jars around the room, holding various preserved animals.
“Kuramochi,” he says, rolling his eyes when the uncomfortable silence makes it clear that Miyuki’s already forgotten his name. Figures.
“Ah, sorry,” Miyuki says, stifling a yawn and not sounding sorry at all. “I was sleeping. Memory is a bit slow.”
“It’s only lunch,” Kuramochi scoffs. He crosses his arms. With his sleeves all rolled up, scrunched around his elbows, and shirt already untucked, he strikes the image of a rebellious student somewhat out of place with the rest of Seidou. He likes it, kinda. “You’re staying in the dorms right? Why are you sleeping instead of going to the dining hall?”
“I was sleepy,” Miyuki protests. There’s a faint air of guilt to the words, and Kuramochi narrows his eyes. Not enough sleep maybe? He knows Kawakami, another one of their batchmates from several dorm rooms down, has been coming into practice listless, with bags under his eyes. Homesickness, he figures.
“Whatever.” Not really his problem. Kuramochi clicks his tongue and jerks his head in the direction of the door. “You gonna eat lunch then?”
“Maybe later,” comes the breezy reply, and Miyuki waves him off.
Kuramochi snorts. “You’re gonna get into shit for skipping,” he remarks, but kicks his chair back without another word and slopes away through the tables of their classroom, 1B.
One last backward glance shows him that Miyuki has dropped his chin over his crossed arms, squashing down page fifty-six of Biology in Focus again, and already closed his eyes.
---
The dorms are already quiet this time of night, and Kuramochi pauses by the vending machine on the way back from their meeting with the Coach.
“You want anything?” he asks, glancing at Zono and Miyuki as he shoves his hand into the pocket of his slacks.“I have spare change.”
“Did the Pocari Sweat restock?” Zono asks, peering into the glass window. “Yeah, one.”
When Kuramochi gestures again, Miyuki shakes his head. “I’m good.”
He slips the coins in, and punches in the numbers. Two bottles tumble out, a loud thunk as they hit the metal flap, against the sharp cicada calls of late summer. There’s already sweat gathering at the back of his neck; they’ve had a streak of humid days that don’t break over the night, and it’s exhausting. Zono presses his cooled bottle to his forehead, sighing faintly. Even Kuramochi looks a little worse for wear, worn down by the endless heat.
“So the first years, huh,” Kuramochi says. He keeps his voice quiet, even though they’re far out of hearing reach from the rest of the team and any eavesdroppers who might pass by.
Zono grunts. He finally uncaps his bottle and swallows a few gulps. “Wonder who made it into first string.”
“Yuuki, maybe,” Miyuki offers. “Yui too.”
“Yui, but not Okumura?”
Miyuki glances at Kuramochi, with a considering thought. “Not at this point in time.”
“It’ll be tough,” Zono says. “For the first years that don’t get in.”
His tone is sympathetic, and borders on wistfulness—Zono speaks from experience, Miyuki knows with painful clarity, and he doesn’t quite look at Miyuki when he speaks. It’s not as much of a sore spot as it used to be, like it was last year, when the tensions between them rose to a high and peaked in the dining hall that one night.
“Hey, how is it dorming with Okumura anyway?” Kuramochi asks, in an obvious bid to change the conversation, and Miyuki can’t help the grimace. “What, not getting along? Haven’t charmed him yet?”
Miyuki laughs. “Being nice is hard,” he says, shrugging.
“Wow.” Kuramochi whistles. “Talk about words I never thought I’d hear you say.”
“Can’t all be like you,” Miyuki quips. “Though whether you’ve successfully charmed anyone is really stretching the imagination a bit—ow—”
Zono sighs at both of them, as Kuramochi bites off a pithy remark to Miyuki’s snicker, and downs the rest of his drink in one gulp.
The ball soars towards home plate, cutting a clean arc through the air, but Kuramochi is already calling urgently across the diamond,
“Sorry! That’s too low—”
Miyuki drops his knees, automatic and fluid, catcher’s mitt falling between his legs. Shoulders hunching forward, he blocks the pitch in the dirt with a loud thwack. Then he’s up on his feet again before anyone can blink, lunging to tag the runner out at home plate.
The dugout erupts into hollers when Miyuki straightens up, grinning this time as Coach calls an out.
“Sloppy mistake, huh,” he mutters to Kuramochi, as the fielding team jogs back to the dugout. His tone is cheerful, teasing even, but Kuramochi grimaces all the same.
It’s not hard to guess that what Kuramochi is thinking, not with the way he glances over to Haruichi trailing a few feet away, alongside Sawamura. The pair of them have made leaps and bounds both in their own rights, and with their compatibility on field. But ironwall defence hadn’t just been a title for mere show, and six months later Miyuki isn’t sure it’s a nickname that’ll ever be repeated. Even if Haruichi does seem to take on a little more of Ryousuke’s demeanour these days, Miyuki thinks, as he watches Haruichi give Sawamura a pointed nudge for his overenthusiasm.
“Don’t worry about it,” Miyuki says to Kuramochi, as they slow down and duck into the shelter.
“Huh?” Kuramochi pauses, mid-way through grabbing for is towel. “Oh. Yeah. Nah, that was my bad. Won’t happen again.”
“That wasn’t what I meant—” Miyuki says, and stops when Kuramochi shoves his shoulder gently.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “Seriously.”
Miyuki can’t help but feel like that was his line to say, and perhaps a little blindsided with how quickly their roles have seemed to reversed. But Kuramochi is gone already, pushing past him to toss water bottles at both Sawamura and Haruichi, the former of which who yelps and fumbles in surprise.
---
You suck, repeats through Kuramochi’s mind like a particularly nasty echo. He stabs his chopsticks into his rice, and they hit the bottom of bowl with a thunk. That had been two weeks ago. Then yesterday;
"You were batting right earlier," Ryousuke said. He tilted his head. "Are you a switch batter?"
Kuramochi startled, bat lowering as he processed the sudden question. The catching net swayed in the spring breeze, and sweat threatened to drip into his eyes. "A switch batter?" he repeated, blinking rapidly.
"You're batting left now," Ryousuke calmly pointed out.
"Oh." Kuramochi wasn’t even in position anymore; he'd straightened up, back ramrod stiff with his confusion. "Yeah, my other arm got tired," he said. A sudden thought struck him. "Is—am I doing something wrong?"
Ryousuke raised an eyebrow. "Do you think you're doing something wrong?"
Shit. "Uh—"
"Get back into batting position and keep practicing," is all Ryousuke said. He tossed the next ball with a sharp flick of his wrist, and Kuramochi hastened to get back into position. For the briefest moment, he thought he heard ”Interesting,” being murmured, but if it was, the sound gets carried away by the wind and he forgot it the moment Ryousuke sped up the batting drills, still wearing that calm smile.
Kuramochi groans. He’s got another round of practice with Ryousuke this evening—he’s not sure his arms are going to be able to hold the bat, let alone swing it another few hundred times.
"Wow, who overcooked your rice?" Miyuki, as always, doesn't seem to miss a beat. Even if he is annoying about it.
"No one," Kuramochi snaps. A certain second baseman, says the treacherous voice in his head. He shakes his head to clear the thought, and scowls at the fact that he’s stuck sitting next to Miyuki again. “Don’t you have any friends?” he asks, gesturing at the dining hall.
"I have plenty of friends," Miyuki says cheerfully, smile not shifting an inch. "Where are yours?"
The news that Miyuki has been moved to first string sweeps through the dining hall during breakfast the next day. It's all hushed whispers and jealous murmurs. Like a veritable rumble that swallows up all the air in the stuffy little room, already fogged up from packing too many warm bodies into the one room during a freezing winter morning.
"Did you hear the news?" Zono asks in a low voice. His rice is untouched, miso soup cooling on the side.
Kuramochi kicks out his usual seat with one foot. "Hard not to," he grunts, sitting down as Shirasu slides his tray over to make room.
"It's not fair," Zono is saying, vehement. "He didn't even have to try. Coach just pushed him up to first string, like nobody else was even an option—"
To the side, Nori fiddles with his chopsticks. “Well...” he says, raising the unpopular sentiment in one quiet word. He clears his throat. “Miyuki is a good catcher.”
“So is Miyauchi-senpai!” Zono scowls, and Nori winces. “Yes, but—” he tries, but doesn’t get much further than that.
Across the far side of the room, Kuramochi hears the rattle of the dining hall door. The thrumming noise in the dining hall drops, like a halted breath, and Miyuki strides in as easy as anything, cap slung sideways and a thick jumper draped around his shoulders. Nori shuts up, quick smart, and shovels rice into his mouth at an alarming speed.
The lull picks up rapidly, when Miyuki doesn’t seem to pay any mind beyond picking up a breakfast tray of his own and joining the rest of the first years at their table.
“Yo,” Kuramochi says, after a beat of silence. He keeps eating, head down over his salmon, and feels Zono’s eyes on him like a tangible nudge.
“Morning,” Miyuki says, voice even. Then, “Itadakimasu.” And that’s all he says.
----
Miyuki idles at the edge of the bathroom sink, prying out the dirt from under his fingernails. The reddened skin at the base of his thumb throbs under the cool, running water.
Last inning of the practice match: Kanemaru at bat, with a fastball from Furuya that had flown wide. He reacted before he even heard the metal clang of the bat, arm shooting out on instinct, in a desperate bid to halt the ball before it bounced far behind home plate.
A sharp sting had told him that he clipped the ball. Fast, but not fast enough—his sudden move won him a few sharp glances from the rest of the team, but not the match.
He turns off the taps, and turns—
“Kuramochi,” he says, startled. He moves to hide his hand behind his back, but stops when he realises it’ll do more to draw attention than evade the inevitable questions.
“Your hand alright?” Kuramochi asks.
“Ah,” Miyuki glances at his hand. The mark will bleed into an faint mottled purple in the next day, and at worst, it'll turn into a stiff bruise that will make it sore to extend his thumb for a while. Nothing major. “Yeah, it’s fine.”
Kuramochi narrows his eyes, and Miyuki waves his hand—shoving a look, it’s fine right in his face. That earns him a snort, all mixtures of disgusted and resigned, and Miyuki grins.
“Don’t do anything dumb, alright?” Kuramochi says, as he moves towards the sink and starts washing off the dirt from his own hands. “Gotta look after yourself for the team.”
“We’ve got a few good catchers in Seidou this year,” Miyuki says. He gathers up his overshirt from where he’d left it hanging across the sink. There’s grass stains all through it, and he’s careful not to favour his right hand as he moves. “Ono is reliable. And Yui is showing a lot of promise,” he says, considering. “Okumura too.”
He’d meant the words as a comfort, a thoughtful relief, but the look that Kuramochi gives him makes him feel as though he’s misstepped somewhere. “What?” he asks, feeling a little confused.
“I meant as captain,” Kuramochi says, in that slow measured tone of his. “But as catcher too. You’re not replaceable.”
“I am, if I have to be,” Miyuki says. He’s digging himself a deeper hole here, and he knows from the way Kuramochi exhales quietly that continuing in this vein only going to frustrate him. So he adds, with a half smile, “I mean, I replaced Chris-senpai after all,” and expects to see all the wind go bursting out of Kuramochi’s sails.
It doesn’t. Instead, Kuramochi narrows his eyes and raises his chin, and says, “Don’t be a fucking idiot.”
---
There’s a commotion up ahead in the field, and Kuramochi shields his eyes against the late afternoon sun to see. Most of the team has gathered outside for today’s practice—they’ve started their drills, and there’s a few late stragglers still coming in, but it’s not hard to make out the small crowd of people watching.
The reason makes itself obvious as soon as Kuramochi jogs up with his helmet still tucked under his arm, and he nearly drops it in muted horror.
“Wanna say that again?” comes the booming voice.
“I said, if you don’t straighten up more then you’re going to have a higher chance of getting jammed when someone throws an inside pitch,” Miyuki says, unflinching. He’s tiny, barely coming up to Azuma’s broad chest (and broader belly—that’s when Kuramochi realises what Miyuki is implying, and nearly chokes on his own saliva), but he meets the glare without a visible tremour.
Shit. Did the guy have a death wish or something? Kuramochi stares, openly, before a small presence sidles up to him and says, voice purposely low, “You’re adding to the tension.”
He nearly jumps, twisting around to glance at Ryousuke, who wears an amused smile. “Shouldn’t someone stop this?” he whispers. He’s seen enough of these kinds of things to know where it goes, and the end destination probably isn’t gonna be pretty for Miyuki. Even if he’s in first-string now, there’s just some things that you don’t do. An unspoken law of high school baseball—you’d have to be a sheer idiot not to pick up on it.
Azuma’s batting gloves creak as his hands tighten into fists. "You're cheeky, for a little pipsqueak. Cheeky little shit."
"On the pitch," Miyuki interrupts, his voice even. “Everyone is equal.”
It's nearly imperceptible, the way he tilts his chin up like a challenge, squares his gaze right on Azuma. There’s a certain red tinge creeping up Azuma’s neck, bright and vivid like outrage growing in splotches, and Kuramochi is already half way wincing in sympathy when Coach Kataoka suddenly shouts for them to start ten laps around the field.
Beside him, Ryousuke sighs.
Fucking hell. Kuramochi shakes his head as he hurries to set his things down and start running. But he can’t help but feel that growing shred of respect. Still.
Making enemies like that. What a dumbass.
---
There’s a loud knocking on the door to his dorm room, and Miyuki manages to ignore it for all of twenty-five seconds before he yanks it open with a resigned sigh. It’s exactly who he expected—Kuramochi Yoichi in the flesh, with a determined expression and stormy look in his eyes that probably speaks of hell to come if Miyuki slams the door closed on his face now. Good thing Okumura is out tonight, having disappeared with Seto an hour ago.
“What’s up? he asks, deliberately keeping his voice light and cheery, and Kuramochi pushes his way into the room in response. Typical.
"Gimme your hand—" he says suddenly, and Miyuki gives him a bemused glance for his trouble.
“What?” he asks, just as Kuramochi steps forward, reaching out, and Miyuki leans away almost immediately, eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"Look—" a lunge, and Miyuki jerks away again; he can feel that confused smile growing on his face, and he’s not sure why, only that he’s acting out of instinct more than anything. "Just gimme your hand!"
"But why—" is all Miyuki manages to protest before Kuramochi yanks him forward.
There's a split second of struggle, when Miyuki tries to free himself but any leverage he might have had is lost when Kuramochi pushes him back to the cramped space of his bottom bunk. He stops, then, because Kuramochi’s grip on his wrist is careful, medical almost, as he turns Miyuki’s hand over and his fingertips brush over the angry-looking bruise.
Oh. He’d expected a good berating, to have Kuramochi pull up last year’s fiasco and point at the words, learn to rely on us you idiot until he was blue in the face, but not. Whatever this is.
Kuramochi shoves his hand in his pocket, and pulls out a tube. The label is faded, half of the tube’s body rolled up in an effort to squeeze out its contents. He unscrews the cap of the tube between his teeth, and squeezes out a dollop onto the back of Miyuki's hand, before smoothing the ointment out in gentle sweeps.
"What is that?" Miyuki asks, eventually. He’s not sure what else to say.
"Ma used to rub it into my bruises," Kuramochi mutters. His head is bent over, focused on where he’s rubbing small circles over the bruise on Miyuki’s hand. "Used to get up to a lot of shit, so I got a lot of 'em when I was young."
“Ah,” Miyuki glances at the tube, now wearing a faint grin. “Your secret and wild past, huh.”
He sounds almost curious, and Kuramochi scowls. “Don’t make me punch you.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Where’s the next one?” Kuramochi asks, when the ointment on Miyuki’s hand has faded to a dull gleam.
“Next what?”
“Bruise. You get a lot of them, right? Playing catcher. And you’ve been playing harder too, don’t think I don’t notice. ”
The look Miyuki gives him is calculated and thoughtful. “It’s just part of the position,” he says, and it sounds like a challenge. “Bruises come with the package.”
“I know that, you dumbass,” Kuramochi snaps. He grabs the tube and impatiently gestures. “I’m not trying to tell you to stop playing, or to stop playing so recklessly, I wouldn’t waste my breath. Just show me the next bruise already.”
Miyuki holds his gaze for a second, a brief moment where he thinks and thinks, and then he lets his shoulders loosen. He reaches for his drawstrings, trackpants resting slack on his hips.
“Woah,” Kuramochi backs up real fast. “What are you doing, don’t take off your pants—”
“That’s where the next bruise is,” Miyuki’s voice is amused and cheerful, but his hands have already stopped moving and Kuramochi bites back his scowl. “I get your point, though.”
“You sure? Cause I reckon you said that last year, and now look—”
Ah, well, there was no real way to dodge that one. “I’m fine, seriously—” Miyuki tries, as he lets his hand fall back into his lap, loose and still.
“You’re pushing yourself harder,” Kuramochi says instead, and Miyuki falls silent. “But just.” He gestures, then seems thinks better of it and just throws the tube in Miyuki’s direction. “Look after yourself too, alright? You’ve got us to worry about, and we’ve got you to worry about so a little less worrying will be good for everyone. Seriously.”
Miyuki catches it without a problem, and without a further word. “Thanks,” he says after a moment, leaving unspoken exactly what he’s thankful for.
Kuramochi just rolls his eyes.