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Nagiharu’s fastball hits Ibuki’s mitt with a cloud of dust and a satisfying snap. It’s just practice and there’s no umpire, but Nagiharu can hear the way he calls out the strike in his head. Ibuki tosses his helmet back and grins.
“How’d that feel?” Nagiharu asks. He flexes his hand. He can still feel the burn of the seams against his fingers.
Ibuki takes his mitt off and shakes out his hand. “Best one yet. Even stung a little.”
Nagiharu knows he should feel guilty, but he can’t help the swell of pride that grows in his chest. Ibuki drops a knee to throw the ball back and Nagiharu almost misses it because he can’t drag his gaze away from Ibuki’s smile.
Nagiharu steps back onto the mound, runs his cleat against the white of it. He feels the grit of sand between his teeth and salt of his sweat on his tongue. The air is stale, like the breeze is waiting for him to throw the ball again.
Nagiharu pauses for a moment, his hand twisting the ball in his glove as he lines the seams up for his next pitch. Behind the plate, Ibuki settles back into his squat and frames his mitt in the bottom right corner of the would-be batter’s strike zone. Through his facemask, Nagiharu can feel the intensity of Ibuki’s stare. He’s ready for him.
Nagiharu brings his glove up to his face and winds up. The motion is, at first, familiar–the grip on the ball, the drawing back of his arm. But it splits into something new after that. He drops his elbow, lowers his arm so that he’s pitching almost underhand. He releases the ball and winces on the follow through.
Ibuki is up, at his side, before Nagiharu even has a chance to call out. Concern is dark in Ibuki’s eyes as he assesses the damage, gaze drifting purposefully over Nagiharu’s arms, up his neck. Nagiharu rolls his shoulder and grimaces as a dull pain radiates down his arm.
“Where does it hurt?” Ibuki’s hands are quick and one-minded, fingers light against Nagiharu’s skin, pushing up his sleeve.
He presses his palm to Nagiharu’s shoulder and rotates his elbow. Nagiharu’s nose wrinkles as he attempts to quell his reaction to the pain.
“We’ve been practicing a lot,” Ibuki says finally. “You need to rest.”
“But–”
“No buts.” Ibuki’s voice is firm, like the snap of a pitch against leather. Nagiharu bites down on any further protests.
Ibuki continues to move his fingers down Nagiharu’s arm, along the crook of his elbow, the bony prominence of his wrist. He lingers there, like he’s trying to pull all of the ache from Nagiharu’s muscles. It sends a nervous fluttering through Nagiharu’s stomach.
“I–” He’s surprised at how rough and loud his voice sounds in the openness of the practice field. He clears his throat. “I’m fine, really.”
Ibuki’s sharp edges soften and he reluctantly lowers Nagiharu’s arm back down to his side. Nagiharu’s skin burns where Ibuki’s hands had been–up his arm, under his sleeve. He can feel a warmth across his nose and he hopes that the flush of exertion is enough to mask it.
“Of course you are,” Ibuki says. His smile rivals the afternoon sun and the ache moves from Nagiharu’s arm to his chest.
“I think I dropped my elbow too far.” Nagiharu mimics the movement with his arm. “Like this.”
Ibuki’s gaze flicks over Nagiharu’s form. He reaches across between them and pulls Nagiharu’s arm closer into his body.
“You’re too loose with it.” His voice is strained like he’s trying to be stern with Nagiharu but he can’t quite muster it. His words and touch are too soft.
Nagiharu lets Ibuki guide his arm inward. The soreness in his shoulder eases.
“That feels good–I mean, better. It feels better.”
“Yeah?”
Nagiharu nods, his words caught in his throat.
“What about this?” Ibuki guides his arm through the rotation of his pitch. One hand pulls Nagiharu’s elbow forward while the other holds his wrist and moves his hand through the final snap.
“Yeah,” Nagiharu says, “feels good.”
Ibuki’s touch, Ibuki’s attention, it feels good.
Nagiharu is grateful when Ibuki doesn’t immediately pull his hands away. He moves Nagiharu’s hand into his view and turns it over to examine his palm.
“Your blisters are bad,” he notes as he runs his thumb over Nagiharu’s hand.
Nagiharu had barely noticed. They had been practicing almost nonstop. He hadn’t had a chance to think about the way his palms stung. But now, cradled in Ibuki’s hands, he feels the accumulation of days of practice.
“They’re not too bad,” Nagiharu reassures him. He doesn’t want to stop practicing, doesn’t know what he would do without this new thrill of having Ibuki behind the plate.
Ibuki’s grip tightens around Nagiharu’s hand. When Nagiharu looks up from his blisters, Ibuki is looking at him.
“No more practice–for now.”
A swirling panic rises in Nagiharu’s chest. “But I want–I need you–I–”
Ibuki pulls Nagiharu’s hand and he topples forward, their lips colliding awkwardly. Nagiharu’s eyes widen, but the panic inside him settles. He feels the tangle of their hands, the press of their chests. Nagiharu’s heart hammers in his ribcage like it's trying to break free.
He closes his eyes, leans in and kisses Ibuki back. His lips are soft, salty from sweat and he makes a quiet, satisfied sound that makes Nagiharu dizzy. The field is quiet like it gets before a pitch, when it’s just them two. It’s the same feeling, the same rush. He forgets the ache in his shoulder, the sting of blisters on his palm.
Ibuki pulls away, but leaves his hand in Nagiharu’s. The corner of his mouth curls in familiar confidence. “Well, I wouldn’t mind practicing something else for a bit.”