Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seido failed to reach Koshien.
We lost to our eternal rivals, Inashiro Industrial.

Just like that, our summer ended.
For the third-years, it was the end of everything we’d worked for — all the sweat, the exhaustion, the late nights, gone in a single game.

The bus ride back was silent. The kind of silence that pressed on your chest until it hurt. Every so often, someone would sniffle, trying to hold it in. I kept my eyes fixed on the window, watching the city lights blur past. I didn’t have the heart to say anything.

When we arrived at school, Coach Kataoka finally spoke.
“Alright, I want all of you to clean yourselves up, then head to the cafeteria for dinner. After that, don’t forget to rest. Dismissed!”

“Yes, Coach.”
Even our voices sounded lifeless. No spark, no fire — just exhaustion.

The cafeteria was just as quiet as the bus. Normally, it’d be filled with laughter and the clatter of trays, but that night it felt… hollow.

My eyes wandered, and they stopped on Sawamura. He was sitting beside Haruichi, his bowl of rice untouched, staring into nothing. That idiot usually never stopped talking — about baseball, pitching, or whatever else popped into his head — but now he looked completely empty.

I could tell what was running through his mind without even asking. He was blaming himself. For that pitch. That one damned dead ball that broke our rhythm.

I clenched my fist under the table.
It wasn’t his fault. I wanted to say it — to tell him that no game is lost by one person alone. But when I opened my mouth, no words came out. Maybe because part of me felt the same. Maybe because I was supposed to be his catcher — his partner — and I didn’t stop it from happening.

So I stayed silent. Just like him.

They called it the Yips.

At first, I didn’t want to believe it. But when Sawamura started flinching every time he tried to throw inside, when his release hesitated — I knew. Something inside him had broken.

“Starting today,” Coach Kataoka said, his tone cold but steady, “you’ll train separately from the others, Sawamura. You’re prohibited from throwing or even touching the ball. I’ll give you a different training menu.”

Sawamura froze. I could see his jaw tighten, his hands trembling slightly at his sides.
“Yes, Coach,” he said, his voice barely a whisper.

All he did after that was run laps around the field. Over and over, day after day. Sometimes, during breaks, I’d catch him standing still, watching us practice with that same empty stare.

The field didn’t feel the same anymore. Without the third-years, the air was quieter — too quiet. No Isashiki-senpai yelling at the underclassmen. No Yuuki-senpai’s voice leading the drills. Just the sound of cleats on dirt and the occasional thud of a glove.

I missed it. I missed them.

And every time I looked at Sawamura — his back drenched in sweat, his steps heavy, yet refusing to stop — that familiar guilt crept back in.
If I had handled things better as his catcher… if I had been more of a leader… maybe he wouldn’t have broken like this.

But I wasn’t good at showing things like that. Never was.
So I did what I always did — hid behind a smirk and pretended I was fine.

Even if deep down, I wasn’t.

Sawamura still hadn’t shown any signs of improvement.
The fiery spark that used to burn in his eyes — the one that could ignite the whole team — was gone. Now, his gaze was dull, empty. It was as if he’d become a completely different person.

Those eyes... they reminded me of someone.

Chris-senpai.

Yeah… maybe I could ask for his help. If there’s anyone who could pull Sawamura back up, it’s him. I know I can’t support him the way Chris-senpai once did.

A soft breeze swept across the rooftop, bringing a rare moment of calm. I leaned against the railing, letting the wind clear my head — even if just for a second.

Since becoming captain, cleanup hitter, and the team’s main catcher, the weight on my shoulders had only grown heavier. Responsibility wasn’t something I could just shrug off.

Can someone like me really lead this team the way Yuuki-senpai did?

“Miyuki, is there something I can help you with?”

That familiar, calm voice broke my thoughts. I turned around to see him — Chris-senpai, the senior I respected most.

“Chris-senpai, you’re here. Sorry for bothering you during study time.”

“It’s fine, Miyuki,” he said with his usual gentle smile. “So, what’s going on?”

I hesitated for a moment, then exhaled.
“I wanted to ask for your help, senpai. Sawamura… he’s got the Yips. During bullpen practice, he couldn’t throw inside at all. Coach has given him a separate training menu and banned him from pitching for now. I… I don’t know what to do for him.”

The words came out rough, like I was forcing them past the lump in my throat.
Why was it so damn hard for me to express what I really felt?

Chris-senpai nodded thoughtfully. “I might be able to help him. But, Miyuki—what Sawamura needs most right now isn’t just technical guidance. He needs you.”

“Me?” I echoed, a bit taken aback.

“You’re his catcher, his partner,” he continued. “I’ll do what I can for him, but my advice is this — talk to him, one on one. Encourage him. He trusts you more than you think.”

His words hit me harder than I expected.

Was I… failing him all this time?
Had I really been standing by silently, pretending everything was fine, while he was crumbling right in front of me?

If I can’t even reach out to my own pitcher when he’s struggling—
do I even deserve to call myself his partner?

“Senpai, maybe you’ve misunderstood something,” I said carefully. “The one he’s always admired… is you. He’s followed you around ever since the first time you helped him. Honestly, sometimes I think Sawamura might even like you—with the way his eyes light up whenever he looks at you.”

Chris-senpai chuckled softly, his expression calm but kind.
“I understand what you’re trying to say, Miyuki. But it’s not like that. What Sawamura and I have—it’s more like a brotherhood. He looks up to me, sure, but what he’s really been seeking all this time… is your recognition. Your attention.”

His words hit harder than I expected.
For a second, I couldn’t even find a response. My mouth opened slightly, but no sound came out.

He continued, his tone steady but warm. “Alright, I’ll try working with him later—maybe start by teaching him to throw to the outer zone. But Miyuki, don’t forget what I told you. Sawamura needs your support more than anything right now. I know your new responsibilities are weighing on you, but if you can… take a little time for him.”

I took a deep breath, nodding. “Alright, Senpai. I’ll do that.”

“Good.” He smiled, that familiar reassuring smile that always made people feel lighter. “Then, I’ll head back to class for now. See you later, Miyuki.”

“Thank you, Chris-senpai.”

He only nodded and gave me that soft, knowing smile before turning around. His footsteps faded as he left the rooftop, leaving me alone with the quiet rustle of the wind.

I stood there for a moment, staring at the spot where he’d been.
Your recognition… your attention.

It was easy to say I’d talk to Sawamura one-on-one.
Actually finding the time to do it… that was another story.

Being captain kept me busier than I’d expected — meetings, team schedules, checking on first-years, strategy sessions with the coaches. By the time I looked up, the day was already gone. And every time I did try to look for him, it was like he had vanished.

The once loud, energetic voice that used to echo through the halls — shouting about baseball, about pitching, about everything — was gone.
The silence he left behind made it strangely hard to find him at all.

Late that night, I passed by the bullpen.
Two silhouettes caught my eye — standing close together under the dim light.

Curious, I moved quietly, careful not to be seen. When I got close enough to see their faces, my chest tightened.

Chris-senpai… and Sawamura.

I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but I didn’t need to.
Chris-senpai gently patted Sawamura’s hair, and in that moment, the kid smiled — that same bright, unguarded smile I hadn’t seen in what felt like forever.

Ah… so he can still smile like that.
It had been too long since the last time I saw that expression.

For a moment, I just stood there, watching them.

Then, quietly, a thought slipped into my mind — one I didn’t want to acknowledge.
Does he even need me anymore?

With Chris-senpai by his side, maybe Sawamura didn’t need his catcher… not the one who couldn’t help him when it mattered.

I turned around and walked away before they could notice me, a faint ache spreading in my chest.

It was strange.
Was it because I was tired…?

With Chris-senpai around, I had to admit — Sawamura was getting better.
He wasn’t as gloomy as before. The emptiness in his eyes was gone, replaced by that familiar golden spark I thought I’d lost for good.

Seeing that light again — the one that always burned too brightly for its own good — made something in my chest unclench.
I just hoped it would last long enough for him to come back to us.

…Or maybe it was too soon to hope for that.

That afternoon during practice, I caught sight of Coach Ochiai talking to him from a distance. I couldn’t hear their words, but I didn’t like the look on Sawamura’s face — the way his shoulders tensed, how he tried so hard to keep it together.

A few moments later, Coach Ochiai walked off, leaving him alone on the field.
Sawamura stood there for a while, his head low, fists clenched.

Then, before I could even process what I was seeing, he suddenly shifted his stance—
and threw sidearm.

“What the hell is that idiot doing?!”

I was on my feet before I realized it, my pulse spiking. Of all the reckless things to try right now…

“What the hell are you doing, Sawamura?!”

My voice came out sharper than I intended as I rushed toward him. He froze mid-motion, eyes wide, as if he’d just been caught doing something forbidden. The ball slipped from his fingers and rolled across the dirt.

“M-Miyuki-senpai…”

“Don’t ‘senpai’ me. What was that just now? You trying to destroy your arm or something?” I barked, glaring at him.

He bit his lip, avoiding my eyes. “It’s not like that. Coach Ochiai told me… if I want to be useful to the team, I can try pitching sidearm to help the batters during practice.”

“What?” I snapped, disbelieving. “And you just agreed to that?”

He flinched at my tone but stood his ground. “I just— I want to be helpful! I’m not doing anything for the team right now. I can’t throw inside, I can’t pitch in games… what else am I supposed to do, Miyuki? Just stand there and do nothing?”

“That’s not the point!” I shot back, stepping closer. “Do you even understand what could happen if you mess with your throwing form right now? You’re already in a fragile state. One wrong move and you could—”

“—Get hurt?” he cut me off, his voice trembling. “You think I don’t know that?! You think I haven’t thought about it every single day since that damned game?!”

He was shaking now — from anger, frustration, maybe both.
His fists clenched so tightly I thought he’d draw blood.

“I’m trying, Miyuki! I’m trying to do something, anything, instead of just running in circles while everyone else moves forward! But all you ever do is yell at me like I’m some kind of idiot who ruins everything!”

“That’s not what I—” I started, but he didn’t let me finish.

“You always say it’s not what you mean, but it feels like it!” His voice cracked, raw and desperate. “If I’m such a burden, then just say it, Miyuki! Say you don’t need me!”

The words hit like a fastball straight to the gut. I stood there, frozen, my mouth half-open — but nothing came out.

He waited for a second, searching my face for an answer that never came. And when he didn’t find it, his expression hardened.

“…I knew it,” he whispered, voice barely audible.

Then he turned around and ran — past the bullpen, past the dugout, his footsteps fading into the cool evening air.

“Damn it, Sawamura!” I shouted after him, but he didn’t look back. 

Kuramochi grabbed my shoulder. "Stop, man. Let him be for now. You're too hard on him. We all know the new coach is really annoying."

"I know, but can you imagine? He could seriously injure Sawamura and end his baseball career!"

"I know, Miyuki. We'll talk to him when we've all calmed down."

"Alright. I'll try to relax first."

What happened earlier still haunts me, keeping me awake. Regret overwhelms me. I think I was too harsh on Sawamura. My worry about him getting injured caused me to take it out on him. Maybe I should let him be for a while before I meet him and apologize. I feel like I need a midnight walk to calm down. I stroll around the field. Tonight feels quiet. The sky is dark, with no moon or stars shining. That suffocating feeling creeps back, reminding me of when I caught Sawamura with Chris senpai.

My steps lead me to the old equipment shed behind the field. The shed, which is usually tightly shut, is slightly open. Wow, why does this feel like I'm in a horror movie? Though scared, I decide to brave a look inside.

The stadium lights help me see the inside of the old shed. What I see shocks me immediately — someone is lying there motionless. Is this a crime victim? I rush closer and recognize that brown hair! It’s Sawamura! Even worse, I smell iron—blood—coming from a deep-looking wide cut on both of his wrists.

"Sawamura, are you listening? Hey, open your eyes!" I cradle Sawamura and try to press his wrists to stop the bleeding.

When that doesn't work, I tear my shirt to bandage his wounds. His face is very pale. He just lies there silently, so different from his usual lively, spirited self. Damn it, I forgot my phone. Reluctantly, I have to leave Sawamura to get help.

I rush to the coaches’ room and bang loudly on the door.

"What’s wrong, Miyuki? You're making a ruckus like—"

Before he can finish, I cut him off. "Coach, this is an emergency! Please call an ambulance immediately. I found Sawamura, and there’s a lot of blood." Coach Kataoka finally notices the bloodstains on my clothes.

“Come on—show me where Sawamura is!”
“Yes, Coach!”

I led Coach Kataoka toward the old storage shed, running as fast as I could. My footsteps echoed through the quiet night, loud enough to wake the nearby dorms. Before long, several students—faces pale with confusion—poked their heads out and began following us.

Kuramochi caught up with me, panting hard. “Hey! What’s going on, Miyuki? Did you see Sawamura? I’ve been looking everywhere for him but—he’s nowhere!”

“Quiet, Kuramochi,” I said sharply. “Just come with us.”

We reached the shed. I stopped in front of the door, my chest burning from the run. “Sawamura’s inside, Coach. I tried to stop the bleeding, but… there was so much blood.”

Kuramochi’s eyes went wide. “What do you mean, Miyuki?! Don’t joke about something like—”

“That’s enough, Kuramochi,” Coach Kataoka cut him off, his voice tight but steady. “I’ve already called for an ambulance. Help guide them here when they arrive.”

Kuramochi froze for a moment, then nodded. “Y-yes, Coach.”

Coach and I stepped into the shed together. The faint smell of dust and metal filled the air. When his eyes landed on Sawamura’s still form, I saw a rare flicker of shock cross his face—especially since he wasn’t wearing his usual dark glasses tonight.

He knelt beside Sawamura immediately, checking his pulse and breathing.
“Thank God,” he murmured. “He still has a pulse. Good work, Miyuki.”

I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My knees gave way, and I sank to the floor beside them.

“I know this must be a shock to you,” Coach said quietly, not looking up. “But the team still needs you, Miyuki.”

His voice echoed in my head, but everything else—the sounds, the lights, even the air—blurred into a dull haze.

I couldn’t remember how the ambulance arrived, or when they took Sawamura away. I didn’t know how I ended up back in my dorm, wearing clean clothes.

All I knew was the image that wouldn’t leave me—the sight of him lying there, pale and silent.

And the sickening thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d been too late.

I barely slept that night.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same image: Sawamura lying there, pale and still, his blood soaking into the dusty wooden floor. No matter how hard I tried to push it away, the image kept replaying in my mind — over and over, like a cruel joke I couldn’t escape from.

When the morning sunlight finally crept through the blinds, it didn’t bring relief. It just made everything feel more real. The air in my room was heavy, suffocating. My clean uniform was neatly folded on the chair, as if nothing had happened. But the faint red stains still clung to my hands, no matter how many times I washed them.

I had to face the team.
No matter how much I wanted to disappear, I couldn’t avoid them forever.

The cafeteria was unusually quiet when I walked in. Normally, the morning buzz of voices and laughter filled the room — Kuramochi teasing Furuya, Kanemaru arguing about food portions, the usual chaos that made Seidou feel alive.
But today, silence.

Every pair of eyes turned to me the moment I stepped through the door.

“Miyuki-senpai…” Haruichi’s voice was soft, trembling. “Is it true? What happened to Eijun-kun last night?”

I froze.
Their faces were full of worry, confusion, fear. Some of them probably hadn’t slept either.

I opened my mouth to answer — but no sound came out.
What could I even say? That I found him bleeding to death in a shed while I stood there uselessly, trying to stop the bleeding with my bare hands? That I was the one who pushed him too far?

I clenched my fists. “...He’s alive,” I finally managed. My voice cracked despite how hard I tried to sound composed. “He’s at the hospital now. That’s all I know.”

There was a collective sigh, but the tension in the air didn’t disappear. It only deepened.

Coach Kataoka had apparently told the staff to keep quiet about the details — but rumors travel fast.
And everyone could tell by looking at me that something terrible had happened.

Kuramochi was the only one who didn’t say anything. He just watched me with that unreadable look — not angry, not sad, but… heavy. When the others slowly went back to their food, he stood up and jerked his chin toward the door.

“Miyuki. Outside. Now.”

We walked out of the cafeteria and into the quiet corridor behind it. The sound of the vending machine humming was the only thing between us.

Kuramochi shoved his hands into his pockets. “You didn’t sleep, did you?”

I didn’t answer.

He sighed, and then pulled something from his bag. A small, worn-out notebook — the cover slightly torn, the edges smudged. My stomach dropped the moment I saw it.

“Where did you get that?” I asked quietly.

“I found it in his bed,” he said, his tone serious.

He hesitated, then added, “I read it.”

I felt a flash of irritation. “You what—”

“Don’t start with me, Miyuki,” he snapped. “I didn’t read it out of curiosity. I had to. You’ll understand when you see it.”

He handed the diary to me. My fingers trembled slightly as I opened the first page.

Sawamura’s handwriting — messy, uneven, but so him.
And the words…

Sometimes I hear them whispering when they think I can’t. They ask why I’m still in the first-string team when I can’t even throw properly anymore. Maybe they’re right.
Maybe I don’t deserve this spot.

My heart pounded painfully in my chest. I flipped to the next page.

I try not to listen, but their words stay in my head even during practice. I know Miyuki-senpai deserves a better pitcher — someone who doesn’t mess up, someone who doesn’t cause trouble.
He’s the reason I came to Seidou. He’s the reason I tried so hard. But if even he starts to believe that I’m not worth it… then what’s left for me?

The next words blurred as I read them.

If I’m gone, maybe things will be easier for everyone. For the team… for Miyuki-senpai.
I don’t want to be a burden anymore.

The notebook slipped from my hands and hit the floor with a soft thud.

Kuramochi bent down and picked it up carefully, his voice low.
“He’s been writing like that for weeks, Miyuki. Every page gets darker. We never noticed.”

I pressed my hand to my forehead, trying to steady myself. “I should have noticed. I was his captain. His catcher. I was supposed to be the one who understood him.”

Kuramochi sighed, frustration and sorrow in his tone. “You’re not a mind reader. You cared — but maybe not in the way he needed.”

His words cut deep.
And the worst part was, he was right.

I clenched my fists. “He… he thought he didn’t deserve to stand beside me. That’s insane. He was the one who kept me going. He’s the one who made catching fun again.”

Kuramochi placed a hand on my shoulder. “Then you need to tell him that. When he wakes up, you have to.”

I nodded slowly, but my throat felt too tight to speak.

As I stared down at the diary, the last lines of his writing echoed in my head like a haunting whisper —
He’s the reason I came to Seidou.

Chapter Text

We lost again — in the autumn tournament qualifiers this time.
I can’t say I didn’t expect it. Not after everything that’s happened.

The team was a shadow of what it used to be. The energy, the spark… it was gone.
Even now, sitting in the dugout, I still found myself waiting for that one familiar voice — the loud, reckless encouragement that used to fill the air whenever we were down. But the dugout was silent. Too silent.

As the bus rumbled down the road, the mood was suffocatingly heavy.
Heads bowed, no laughter, no teasing.
It reminded me too much of last summer — of the day everything started to fall apart.

I pressed my forehead against the window, watching the evening light fade.
I still wished Sawamura were here with us.
Catching felt empty without him.
And no matter how many pitches I caught now, none of them had the same warmth, the same rhythm, the same joy.

If I’d told him — if I’d just said how much he mattered, how much I relied on him —
would things have been different?

That thought stayed with me just long enough before a sudden jolt snapped me back.

The bus lurched violently.
A flash of blinding light —
Tires screeched, metal screamed —
Then, nothing but darkness.

After talking with Kuramochi this morning, I decided to visit Sawamura at the hospital. Coach gave me permission to skip evening practice — said it might do me some good. I went alone. Kuramochi and Zono were covering for me, leading the team.

The receptionist kindly directed me to his room. The corridor was quiet — sterile, cold. My footsteps echoed off the walls.

The closer I got to his room, the heavier my chest felt. I rehearsed what I’d say:
“You idiot, don’t scare us like that.”
Maybe even a small smile. Something normal. Something safe.

But before I reached the door, a scream shattered the silence.

“Eijun! Oh, God!”

A woman’s voice — trembling, raw.

My heart stopped. I ran.
Before I could open the door, a middle-aged man rushed out, shouting for nurses, his voice cracking with panic. I pushed past him, stepping into the room — and saw her. A woman with the same chestnut hair as his, kneeling on the floor near the bathroom, her hands trembling, her cries breaking the air apart.

And then…

My eyes followed where she was looking.

For a moment, my brain refused to process it.

Sawamura.
Hanging by a white bedsheet tied around his neck, the other end looped through the bathroom’s ventilation grate.

Everything in me froze.

The room spun, my breath caught in my throat.

I wanted to shout his name — to run, to tear him down, to undo what I was seeing — but no sound came out.

Just silence.

The hospital hallway was flooded with chaos. Medical staff hurried in every direction—doctors shouting orders, nurses rushing with supplies, the steady beep of monitors, and the frantic footsteps of relatives.

Miyuki stood beside Sawamura’s parents, each of them pressed into a quiet corner in this room. Nurses and doctors moved rapidly, their movements precise but urgent, as they carried Sawamura on a stretcher from the bathroom. His body was pale, limp, and fragile beneath the white sheet tangled around his neck.

His mother’s hands trembled as she gripped her husband’s arm tightly, eyes wide with disbelief and regret. “Why... why did this have to happen now?” she whispered, voice breaking. “Just this evening, we were buying dinner — and now...” Her words trailed off into choked sobs.

Her husband’s hands shook as he pulled her closer, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We should have known, we should’ve seen something...” he murmured through his anguish.

Miyuki watched them both, feeling an ache spread from his chest outwards. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scene before him—Sawamura being carefully laid on the hospital bed, nurses gently removing the sheet, doctors preparing equipment to try to save him. Every second stretched unbearably long.

Sawamura’s mother looked up suddenly, eyes searching Miyuki’s face with raw desperation. “Please,” she said, voice trembling, “tell me what is happening at Seidou. Why—why is this happening to my son?”

Miyuki swallowed hard, unable to form words that could make sense of the nightmare unfolding. “I... I don’t know,” he admitted softly, shaking his head. “He was always strong, stubborn, never gave up. We thought...” His voice cracked and broke.

Minutes passed, feeling like hours. The doctors whispered urgently among themselves, checking monitors and trying every possible intervention. But gradually, the crisp urgency in their eyes faded into exhaustion and gentle finality.

One doctor stepped forward, face solemn but kind. “I’m very sorry. We did everything we could. But Sawamura-kun... he couldn’t be saved.”

The words struck Miyuki like a physical blow. The air escaped his lungs. His legs gave way beneath him, and he sank to the floor, staring blankly ahead. His hands balled into fists, nails digging into his palms.

For the first time, the crushing weight of loss hit him fully. Sawamura—his teammate, his friend—was truly gone.

And deeper still, something raw and achingly unfamiliar stirred inside Miyuki: the bitter, painful truth that he had already fallen for him. That lost, vibrant soul had become essential to his own. Now, with a hollowed heart, Miyuki realized he didn’t just miss Sawamura — he missed the person he cared about more than he ever dared admit.

Sawamura’s mother knelt beside him.

The hospital lights flickered above, cold and indifferent to the broken hearts beneath.

The doctor’s voice was gentle but firm, “We need to prepare to move Sawamura to the morgue. We’re deeply sorry for your loss.”

Sawamura’s father nodded silently, wiping away tears, while his mother’s grip on his arm tightened. After a brief pause, she turned to Miyuki, her eyes red but steady. “Miyuki-kun, would you come with us? We want you to be there.”

Miyuki swallowed hard, nodding. He followed them down the hospital corridor, each step heavy with quiet grief. Time seemed to slow as they reached the morgue door—sterile and cold, a final threshold no family wants to cross.

Before they entered, Sawamura’s mother faced Miyuki directly, her voice soft but searching. “Miyuki-kun... tell me. How do you feel about our Eijun?”

Miyuki’s eyes filled with tears he had been holding back, the weight of unspoken feelings pressing down harder than ever. “I... I only just realized it now,” he said, his voice trembling. “I have feelings for him—more than I understood before. And I regret so much that I couldn’t do more, couldn’t save him. Please... forgive me.”

A faint, sad smile touched Sawamura’s mother’s lips. She reached out, gently taking Miyuki’s hands in hers. “Miyuki-kun, don’t blame yourself. Eijun talked about you often—especially when we spoke on the phone. You were very important to him, more than you know.”

Her words wrapped around Miyuki like a fragile thread of comfort. The pain was still raw, but in that moment, he felt a connection—to Sawamura and his family—that gave him a bittersweet sense of belonging.

“We are grateful you were by his side,” she added quietly before leading the way inside.

Inside the room, everything seemed too quiet.
Sawamura lay peacefully beneath the sterile white sheet — so still, so unlike the boy who once filled the dugout with noise and laughter. The silence pressed on Miyuki’s chest until it hurt to breathe.

Sawamura’s mother stepped forward first, her trembling hands brushing along the sheet before folding gently at her chest. Her husband stood behind her, his arm wrapped around her shoulders as she whispered something softly — a mother’s goodbye, words too private for anyone else to hear.

When she finally stepped back, she turned toward Miyuki again. Her eyes shimmered with both pain and warmth. “We’ll wait outside,” she said quietly. “Take your time, Miyuki-kun.”

Miyuki nodded, his throat too tight for words. The door closed behind them, and he was alone.

The room felt colder now.
The soft, artificial hum of the fluorescent lights echoed above, blending with the distant sound of footsteps and hospital carts in the hallway. But inside this small, sterile chamber, time had stopped — trapped between breaths Miyuki could no longer hear and words he never got to say.

He took one more hesitant step forward, the soles of his shoes scraping faintly against the floor. Sawamura lay before him, still and pale, wrapped neatly beneath a white sheet that seemed far too quiet for someone who used to overflow with energy.

“Hey,” Miyuki whispered, his voice barely audible. “You’re really quiet today… that’s weird. You never shut up before, remember?”

A small, broken smile tugged at his lips. “You’d always yell in the dugout, or complain that I was too harsh on you, or say that one day you’d become the ace and make me proud. You were always so damn loud…”

He swallowed hard. The words burned in his throat.

“I used to tell you to stop shouting so much,” he murmured, a tremor in his voice. “But now… I’d give anything to hear your voice again. Even if it’s just you yelling at me for being a jerk.”

He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, but the tears just kept coming — hot, relentless, unstoppable.

Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingers over the white fabric near Sawamura’s shoulder. “You know, Eijun… I didn’t realize how much you meant to me. Not until now.”

He let out a shaky breath, the weight of every unspoken word pressing against his chest. “I always thought we’d have more time. That after the tournament, after you recovered, we’d get back on the field together — me catching your pitches, you glaring at me for teasing you. I thought I’d have the chance to say it properly.”

Miyuki’s voice cracked. “But I was stupid. I thought you’d always be there. I thought I could keep pretending that what I felt was just… respect. That you were just my pitcher.”

He knelt down, resting both hands on the edge of the table, his forehead pressing gently against the cold metal. “But the truth is… I loved you, Eijun.”

The words came out in a whisper, fragile and trembling — words that had waited too long. “I didn’t understand it back then. I just knew that when you smiled, something in me felt lighter. That every time you threw a pitch, I wanted to be the one catching it. And when you weren’t around, everything just felt… wrong.”

He let out a choked laugh, bitter and full of sorrow. “I guess I was too much of a coward to say it. I didn’t want to ruin what we had — our battery, our rhythm, our connection. I thought maybe if I stayed quiet, it would last forever.”

He lifted his head slightly, staring at Sawamura’s face — peaceful now, but still carrying that faint trace of stubborn determination even in rest. “You once said you wanted to be someone worthy of me. But, Eijun… you already were. You always were.”

His hand trembled as he reached out, brushing a lock of hair away from Sawamura’s forehead. “You pushed yourself so hard, just to catch up. But you didn’t need to. You didn’t have to prove anything. You were enough. You were always enough for me.”

A deep, aching silence filled the room.

Miyuki’s breathing hitched as the tears fell freely now. “If I had just told you that… maybe you wouldn’t have believed those stupid whispers. Maybe you wouldn’t have felt like you didn’t belong. Maybe you’d still be here.”

He pressed his lips together, his voice breaking completely. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you, Eijun. I’m sorry I let you go through all that pain alone. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you how much you mean to me when I had the chance.”

The words hung in the air, raw and trembling.

“You’re my partner,” he whispered. “You’ve always been my partner — on and off the field. No matter what happens, that won’t change. Even if you’re gone, I’ll still be the catcher who caught your pitches. I’ll still be the one who believes in you.”

He stood there for a long time, just watching, memorizing every line of Sawamura’s face — the curve of his jaw, the faint scar near his eyebrow, the lips that once shouted his name with such reckless confidence.

When the door creaked open, Sawamura’s father stood there silently, his expression heavy but gentle. “Miyuki-kun,” he said softly. “I've just called Takashima-san. She’ll take you back to Seidou later.”

Miyuki nodded but didn’t move right away. He needed one last moment.

He leaned down, his voice barely a whisper. “Sleep well, Eijun. You deserve peace now. And wherever you are… please keep throwing. I’ll be there to catch you, someday.”

He pressed his forehead gently against Sawamura’s hand — one final touch, one final goodbye.

Then he straightened up, wiping his tears with the back of his hand. His chest ached, but somewhere within the pain, there was a quiet resolve.

Because even though Eijun was gone, their bond — their battery — would never fade.
It would live on, in every pitch Miyuki caught, in every echo of the field where Sawamura once stood shouting his name.

“See you later, partner,” he whispered, before finally turning toward the door.

The sound of the door closing behind him was deafening.
For a moment, Miyuki just stood there in the hospital hallway, staring blankly at the sterile white walls. His fingers still tingled from the warmth that had already faded from Sawamura’s hand. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant, sharp and clean — but to him, it would always smell like loss.

Sawamura’s parents were speaking quietly with the nurse, their faces pale but composed in the way only people who had cried too much could be. Sawamura’s father placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder, then turned to Miyuki. His expression was steady, though grief still lingered in his eyes. “Takashima-san will be here soon. She’ll take you back to Seidou. We already spoke with her.”

“Thank you,” Miyuki said, bowing his head. His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. “And… I’m really sorry. I couldn’t protect him.”

Sawamura’s father shook his head slowly. “No one could have known, Miyuki-kun. Eijun was… always trying to protect everyone else from his pain. He didn’t want anyone to worry.”

Those words stabbed deep — because Miyuki knew they were true. Sawamura always smiled for everyone else, even when his world was crumbling behind that smile.

Moments later, Takashima Rei arrived, dressed in a dark coat. Her face was pale, her eyes already red as she hurried toward them. “I came as fast as I could,” she said breathlessly, glancing at the family, then at Miyuki. “Is… is it true?”

Miyuki didn’t answer — he couldn’t. He simply lowered his head, and that was enough. The silence between them said everything.

“Takashima-san,” Sawamura's mother said softly, her voice gentle despite its cracks. “We’ll… come by the dorm tomorrow morning to pack Eijun’s things before we go back to Nagano.”

Takashima’s breath hitched, but she steadied herself, turning to the Sawamuras. “Understood… let me handle things from here. I’ll make sure everything at Seidou is taken care of.”

The couple nodded. Sawamura’s mother stepped forward, taking Miyuki’s hand one last time. “Thank you, Miyuki-kun. For staying with him till the end.”

He wanted to say, I should’ve stayed sooner. But the words refused to come.

The car ride back to Seidou was silent. The world outside blurred — the city lights streaking across the glass like fragments of memory. Takashima kept her hands tightly on the wheel, glancing at him now and then, but she didn’t ask anything. She didn’t have to.

Miyuki sat in the passenger seat, staring at his own reflection in the window. His eyes looked empty, his face pale. Every thought, every sound, every image of Sawamura replayed endlessly in his mind — the way he laughed, the way he’d grin after a strike, the way he’d pout whenever Miyuki teased him.

And then, the silence.
That unbearable, irreversible silence.

When they arrived at Seidou, it was already late. The dorms were quiet, the lights dimmed. Takashima-sensei and Miyuki walked straight to Coach Kataoka’s office. The sound of their footsteps echoed through the corridor like muted thunder, the weight of what they carried pressing down on every step.

Coach Kataoka was still awake, sitting behind his desk, reviewing practice reports with his usual discipline. He looked up when he heard the door open. “Takashima-sensei? Miyuki? What brings you here at this hour?”

The sight of their faces made his expression change immediately — confusion melting into worry. “What happened?”

Takashima-sensei hesitated, her lips parting but no words came out. Her eyes darted toward Miyuki. He looked pale, exhausted, the color drained from his face.

Miyuki took a deep breath, his voice hoarse and trembling. “It’s… it’s about Sawamura.”

Coach Kataoka straightened in his seat. “Sawamura? What about him? Did something happen?”

For a long moment, Miyuki couldn’t speak. His throat felt dry, his chest tight. Then the words came out — broken and shaking.

“When went to visit him… at the hospital.” His voice wavered. “When I got there, I heard screaming from inside his room. His mother’s voice. I ran in, and… and…” He stopped, his body trembling as he forced himself to continue. “Sawamura… he had already—he was hanging in the bathroom. I couldn’t do anything. The doctors tried, but…”

Takashima-sensei closed her eyes, tears slipping down her cheeks. “It was already too late,” she whispered. “They couldn’t save him.”

The color drained from Coach Kataoka’s face. He sat frozen, staring at them as if the words refused to make sense. “No… that can’t be…” he muttered under his breath. “That boy… Sawamura…”

He rose abruptly from his chair, pacing behind his desk as if trying to escape the truth. “I should’ve known something was wrong,” he said, his voice cracking. “I should’ve seen the signs. I— I was too focused on results. I separated him from the team, thinking it would help him recover, but… maybe that decision broke him instead.”

“Coach…” Takashima-sensei’s voice was gentle, heavy with guilt. “We all thought we were doing the right thing. I should have checked on him more. He always said he was fine, and I believed him.”

Coach Kataoka stopped, his hand trembling as he pressed it against the wall. “No, this is on me. I was his coach. I should’ve been there for him not just as a player, but as a person.”

The silence that followed was suffocating — the kind that made every heartbeat feel too loud.

Miyuki clenched his fists, his voice barely above a whisper. “I saw his parents, Coach. They were there… they watched everything. They asked me to stay with them — to say goodbye.”

He swallowed hard, his throat burning. “I realized too late how much he was hurting. I never told him how much he meant to me. I thought I had time. I thought…” His voice cracked. “…I thought he’d always be there.”

Coach Kataoka slowly walked around the desk and placed a firm hand on Miyuki’s shoulder. His own eyes glistened behind his glasses. “You don’t have to carry this alone, Miyuki. None of us saw it coming.”

He drew in a deep breath, regaining a sliver of his usual composure. “Tomorrow morning, I’ll gather the team and tell them the truth myself. There will be no practice. Everyone deserves time to grieve.”

Takashima-sensei nodded silently. “That’s the right thing to do.”

Takashima-sensei turned to Coach Kataoka, her tone soft but resolute. “Sawamura’s parents said they’ll come by to collect his belongings before returning to Nagano.”

“Miyuki, I want you to be there when they come,” Coach Kataoka answered. “You were his partner — his battery. Help them pack his things. Take Kuramochi with you since they shared a room. I know it won’t be easy, but it’s something we owe to him.”

Miyuki lowered his head, his jaw tightening as he blinked back tears. “Understood, Coach.”

Takashima-sensei placed a hand on Miyuki’s back. “We’ll handle the rest. Try to get some rest tonight, even if it’s just for a little while.”

Coach Kataoka sank back into his chair, rubbing his temples. The man who had always been a pillar of strength for the team now looked utterly defeated. “Sawamura was more than just a player,” he murmured. “He brought life to this place. Without him…” He exhaled shakily. “…Seidou will never be the same.”

Miyuki could only nod. The truth of those words settled deep into his chest, heavy and hollow. He turned to leave, the weight of the night pressing down on his shoulders.

As he stepped into the dimly lit hallway, his mind replayed the final image of Eijun — lifeless, pale, yet somehow still so painfully bright in his memory.

Tomorrow, the sun would rise again over Seidou. But for Miyuki, it would never feel as warm.

The next morning came quietly, as if the world itself was holding its breath. The sky above Seidou was pale and muted, a soft gray that seemed to mourn alongside them. Dew still clung to the grass, and the usual sound of early batting practice was absent. There was no laughter, no shouting. Only silence.

Inside the cafeteria, the players gathered after breakfast, some joking half-heartedly, others still sleepy from the night before. But even among the small talk, there was something heavy in the air. They could feel it. Something wasn’t right.

Miyuki sat at one of the back tables, untouched food on his tray. His uniform was crisp, but his eyes were dull and lifeless. He hadn’t slept. Not even for a minute. His mind was still back at the hospital — the sterile walls, the cries of Sawamura’s parents, the weight of his own helplessness.

Kuramochi, sitting nearby, kept glancing at him. “Oi, captain,” he said quietly, trying to lighten the air, “you look like you saw a ghost or something.”

Miyuki didn’t respond. He just gave a faint, tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Kuramochi frowned but didn’t push further. Something was definitely wrong.

Moments later, the cafeteria door opened. Coach Kataoka entered, followed by Takashima-sensei. The murmurs stopped almost immediately. The entire room fell silent.

The coach’s expression was grave — his usual stern face now shadowed with something deeper, something almost fragile. He stood before the team, his cap in his hands, the brim slightly trembling.

“Everyone,” he began, his voice low but steady. “I know this isn’t how we usually start our morning. But I need you to listen carefully.”

The players exchanged confused looks. Furuya sat up straighter. Haruichi froze with his chopsticks still in hand. Kuramochi’s eyes darted between the coach and Miyuki, unease creeping into his chest.

Coach Kataoka took a deep breath. “Last night... something terrible happened.” His words came slowly, like they hurt to say. “Sawamura Eijun... has passed away.”

For a moment, no one moved. No one even breathed. The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and cruel, as if they refused to sink in.

Haruichi was the first to react. The chopsticks fell from his hands, clattering loudly against the floor. “W-what…?” His voice cracked, trembling. “That’s… that’s not true, right? Coach?”

Furuya’s eyes widened, his hands clenching tightly against his knees. He stared blankly at the table, his lips parting but no sound came out. His mind couldn’t grasp it — Sawamura, loud, stubborn, full of fire — gone?

Kuramochi stood up abruptly, his chair screeching against the floor. “Coach, what the hell are you saying? That’s a sick joke, right? He’s fine! He’s in the hospital — he’s getting better!” His voice shook with desperation, anger and disbelief mixing together.

Coach Kataoka closed his eyes briefly, trying to steady his voice. “It’s true,” he said quietly. “Miyuki... and Sawamura’s parents were there. He… took his own life.”

Gasps filled the room. Someone cursed under their breath. The world felt like it was collapsing.

Kuramochi’s fists tightened at his sides, trembling. “No way… that idiot… that idiot wouldn’t do that!” His voice cracked mid-sentence, rage fading into grief. He turned toward Miyuki. “Tell him, Miyuki! Tell him it’s not true!”

Miyuki finally looked up. His eyes were red and hollow, the same emptiness from the night before still etched into them. He didn’t say anything at first — and that silence was answer enough.

Kuramochi’s voice broke. “Damn it…” He sank back into his chair, covering his face with both hands.

Haruichi’s tears began to fall freely. “That... That's impossible,” he whispered. “He said we’d play together again…”

Across the room, Furuya’s breathing grew shallow. His expression was blank, his gaze distant. “I… didn’t get to pitch with him again…” he murmured, voice barely audible.

Coach Kataoka stepped forward, his voice trembling despite his best effort. “None of us saw it coming,” he said. “And for that, I take responsibility. As his coach, I failed him. I thought I was pushing him to be better… but I didn’t see how much he was struggling. I made decisions that isolated him — and I’ll regret that for the rest of my life.”

Takashima-sensei placed a gentle hand on his arm, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “We all share that regret,” she whispered.

The silence that followed was unbearable. The air was thick with sorrow, the sound of quiet sobs breaking through every now and then.

Finally, Coach Kataoka straightened his shoulders, forcing himself to continue. “There will be no practice today,” he said. “Today, Sawamura’s parents will come to the dorm to pack his belongings. Miyuki and Kuramochi — I’d like you two to help them.”

Kuramochi nodded weakly, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. “Yeah…” he whispered.

Miyuki didn’t respond. He only stared at the table, lost in thoughts that wouldn’t stop.

Coach Kataoka took one last look at his team — his family — and lowered his head. “We’ll hold a memorial here after they leave. I want everyone to be there. No uniforms. Just… come as yourselves. Sawamura would want that.”

He stepped back, his voice barely holding. “You may go.”

As the players stood, one by one, the once-lively cafeteria was drowned in silence. No chatter, no laughter. Only the soft sound of tears and the occasional whisper of Sawamura’s name.

Miyuki remained seated even after everyone else left. The untouched breakfast on his tray had gone cold. He looked down at his hands — the same hands that had caught hundreds of Sawamura’s pitches.

And for the first time since last night, he whispered softly, to no one in particular:

“We were supposed to go further together, you idiot… We were supposed to win…”

His voice cracked.

“You were worth so much more than you ever realized, Eijun.”

Then, finally, the tears fell.

The next morning came gray and cold, with thin clouds hanging low over Seidou. The dormitory that once echoed with laughter and shouting now felt lifeless, each corner heavy with absence.

Miyuki stood in front of Room 5 with Kuramochi beside him. The familiar brass number on the door gleamed faintly under the corridor light. It used to be the noisiest room in the entire dorm — filled with Sawamura’s endless chatter, his loud voice calling for Miyuki, his laughter that somehow always made even the toughest days lighter.

Now, silence.

Coach Kataoka had told them earlier that morning that Sawamura’s parents would be arriving soon from Nagano. They were to help them pack Eijun’s things. It sounded simple — just pack up a room — but Miyuki’s chest tightened at the thought.

Kuramochi sighed, his voice rough. “Can’t believe we’re really doing this…”

Miyuki didn’t respond. His hand hovered over the doorknob for a moment before finally twisting it open.

The room was just as Sawamura had left it. His blanket was half-folded, his shoes neatly lined up by the bed. On the desk, there was a notebook open with messy handwriting, a few empty bottles of sports drink, and his favorite blue cap. The air still carried a faint trace of his shampoo — something clean, citrusy, and familiar.

Kuramochi clenched his jaw. “Damn it… this feels wrong.”

Miyuki quietly stepped inside, eyes scanning every detail. Every item here screamed of him — the person who filled every space with noise and warmth. It felt unreal that the same boy was now gone.

Moments later, they heard soft footsteps from the hallway.

Sawamura’s parents appeared at the doorway. His mother looked fragile, her eyes swollen from tears that seemed endless. His father, standing quietly behind her, offered a small, grateful nod.

“Thank you for helping,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

Kuramochi immediately bowed. “No, ma’am… we’re the ones who should thank you—for letting us help.”

Together, they began to pack. Sawamura’s mother folded his clothes one by one, each piece treated as if it might crumble if touched too harshly. Miyuki carefully gathered the books and notebooks from the desk. Kuramochi packed the shelves — baseball magazines, photos, little souvenirs from away games.

Every item carried a memory.

Every fold, every motion was a quiet goodbye.

At one point, Sawamura’s mother stopped moving. She stood by the desk, her eyes fixed on something inside the drawer. Slowly, she reached in and pulled out a worn baseball glove — the one Sawamura used during practices before he got injured. The leather was faded in some spots, the stitching slightly frayed, but it was unmistakably his.

“This was his favorite,” she murmured. “He used it every day until he couldn’t anymore.”

Miyuki stared at it. His throat tightened. That glove had caught countless pitches — each one filled with Sawamura’s unrelenting energy, his laughter, his frustration, his hope.

Then, Sawamura’s mother noticed something else — a small pile of folded papers tucked beneath a notebook. She picked them up carefully and open it.

She turned toward Miyuki, holding out both the glove and the papers. “Miyuki-kun… I think you should have these.”

Miyuki’s eyes widened slightly. “Me?”

She nodded, smiling weakly through the ache. “Eijun always talked about you. He admired you so much. I don’t think I’m strong enough to keep this glove… but maybe you can. Maybe you’ll remember him with it — not as someone you lost, but as someone who loved the game, and… who looked up to you.”

Her words broke something inside him. His fingers trembled as he accepted the items. “I—thank you,” he managed, voice cracking.

Sawamura’s father rested a hand gently on his wife’s shoulder. “He would’ve wanted that,” he said softly.

When they stepped outside for a moment to load boxes into their car, the room fell into silence again. Miyuki sat on the edge of the bed, the glove resting in his lap. His thumb brushed over the worn leather, feeling the deep grooves left by Sawamura’s grip — proof of endless hours of effort.

Then he unfolded the papers. The first few pages were rough drafts — scribbles about baseball drills, notes from games, and random thoughts. But as he flipped to the last page, his breath caught.

It was written in Sawamura’s unmistakable messy handwriting.

“In another life, I want to be someone that’s worth to be Miyuki-senpai’s partner.”

The words blurred as Miyuki’s vision filled with tears. His heart ached so fiercely it felt like it might shatter. He bit his lip hard, trying to hold himself together, but the sob broke free anyway — raw and quiet.

Kuramochi looked over from where he was sealing a box and froze. “Miyuki…”

Miyuki didn’t respond. He just pressed the paper against his chest, tears streaming freely now.

“You already were, you idiot,” he whispered shakily. “You always were.”

Kuramochi’s eyes glistened as he turned away, pretending to busy himself with the packing, but his hands were trembling.

Outside, the faint sound of Sawamura’s mother’s voice drifted through the open window — soft, broken, yet filled with love.

And inside that small, quiet room, Miyuki sat surrounded by empty spaces that once belonged to someone irreplaceable. The glove, the paper, the silence — they were all that remained.

But as painful as it was, Miyuki held them close. Because even though Sawamura was gone, his presence still lingered — in the weight of that glove, in the scrawl of those words, and in the aching heartbeat of the catcher who had finally realized just how much his pitcher had meant to him.

A sharp gasp tore through my throat.
My eyes flew open.

For a moment, everything was white — the ceiling, the thin curtain, the pale light of dawn spilling across the room. My heart was pounding so hard it hurt. My chest rose and fell in quick, uneven breaths, and the echo of that crash still rang in my ears.

What… what the hell just happened?

I sat up abruptly, cold sweat clinging to my skin. The faint sound of soft snoring came from across the room. When I turned my head, I froze.

On the bed opposite mine, Azuma-senpai was sprawled out, snoring like a chainsaw. His familiar wild hair poked out from the blanket, and his bat leaned casually against the wall beside him.

For a few seconds, my brain refused to process it.
Azuma-senpai? Here?

That was impossible. He graduated from Seidou years ago. Why would he be here, in the dorm room, sleeping across from me like it was just another morning of practice?

A nervous laugh escaped my throat — the kind that sounded too hollow to be real. “No way…”

I rubbed my temples, trying to shake the dizziness. The last thing I remembered — the bus, the crash, that blinding light, the pain — it all felt too vivid to be a dream. But this… this felt real. The air, the morning chill, the faint smell of laundry detergent and bat wax. Everything was real.

My eyes drifted toward my desk.
The old calendar still hung there, half covered by a few scattered notebooks. Absentmindedly, I leaned forward to check the date.

And then my blood ran cold.

April 2013.

The numbers stared back at me like a cruel joke.
No. That couldn’t be right. I grabbed my phone, hands trembling as I pressed the power button. The screen flickered to life, and there it was again — the same date. The same year.

My first year at Seidou.

“What the hell…” I whispered.

My heart raced faster. I stood up, pacing the small space, the floorboards creaking under my bare feet. My mind was a blur of panic and disbelief. Was this a dream? A hallucination from the accident? Or… something else entirely?

To make sure, I did something stupid — I pinched my cheek, hard.

“Ow— damn it!”

Pain. Sharp, real pain.

The sting spread across my skin, and the realization hit me like a fastball to the chest.
This wasn’t a dream. Somehow — impossibly — I was back.

Back in my first year.
Back before everything fell apart.
Back before he…

My throat tightened.

“What is this supposed to mean…” I muttered, sinking back onto my bed. My fingers gripped the sheets, trying to steady my breathing.

Outside, the early morning sounds of students were slowly awakening — the distant chatter of underclassmen, the rhythmic thud of someone jogging past the dorms, the faint scent of the cafeteria’s miso soup drifting through the air.

Everything was exactly as it used to be.

As if nothing had happened.

As if Sawamura Eijun was still alive somewhere, full of energy, shouting at the top of his lungs.

My chest ached.
Was this really happening? Was this fate… or punishment?

I pressed a hand against my heart. “If this is real…”

A tremor ran through me.

“If this is real, then… I can change it. I won’t let it end the same way again.”

My reflection in the window stared back at me — tired eyes, trembling hands, and beneath it all, a quiet determination beginning to burn.

Whatever this was — miracle, dream, or curse — I wouldn’t waste it.
Not this time.

Chapter Text

The morning light crept slowly across the dorm room, brushing over the familiar walls that shouldn’t have existed anymore. I sat at my desk, trying to piece everything together — the memories, the timeline, the impossible reality I’d woken up in.

If everything in this timeline followed as it had before, that was the moment our paths would cross again.
But this time, I wouldn’t stand by and let things fall apart. This time, I would protect him — even if I didn’t yet understand how or why I was being given this chance.

I leaned back in my chair, exhaling slowly. The faint hum of morning life at Seidou buzzed outside the window. A few first-years jogged past, laughing about something trivial. It felt surreal — all of it.

If my memory served right, the Seidou campus tour with Rei-chan would happen two days from now. That was when Sawamura first stepped onto this field — loud, clumsy, ridiculously confident.

Two days.
That’s all the time I had to prepare.

I ran a hand through my hair and leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The memories replayed like a film reel — the way he’d smiled despite being nervous, the sparkle in his eyes when he saw the field for the first time. I could still hear him shouting, “I’m gonna be the ace!” like the world owed him a promise.

A smile tugged faintly at my lips, though it didn’t reach my eyes.

“This time,” I said quietly to the empty room, “I won’t push you away. I won’t let you go through that alone.”

As I reached for my notebook, thinking of jotting down a few things to plan my next steps, something caught my eye.

A piece of folded paper — thin, slightly wrinkled — peeked out from between the notebook pages.

My stomach tightened. That paper… I knew it.

With hesitant fingers, I pulled it free.

The handwriting hit me instantly — messy, rushed, but unmistakably his.

The world seemed to still around me. The sound of birds outside faded, replaced by the echo of my own heartbeat.

It was the same paper.

The one Sawamura’s mother had handed me after we packed his belongings. The one I had unfolded with trembling hands in another life.

But that was impossible. I had left it in my drawer — in that world, that time.

How… how could it be here?

My hand trembled as I unfolded it, half afraid of what I might see.
And there it was — the same words, the same ink, as if time itself refused to erase them:

“In another life, I want to be someone worth being Miyuki-senpai’s partner.”

I froze.
My breath hitched, my throat tightening until it hurt.

The paper slipped slightly from my fingers, fluttering onto the desk.

“No way…” I whispered. “You… even now…”

I clenched my fists, trying to calm the storm building inside me.
If this paper had followed me here — if something, someone, made sure I saw it again — then maybe this wasn’t a random second chance.

Maybe it was a plea.

A plea from a boy who had once smiled through every pain, who only wanted to prove he was worthy of standing beside me.

A lump rose in my throat. I traced my thumb gently over the words, the edges of the paper trembling under my touch.

“I get it now, Sawamura,” I murmured, voice breaking softly. “I won’t waste this chance. I’ll make sure you never have to write something like this again.”

Two days passed in a blur.
Every ticking second carried a strange weight — the kind that made my heart race with a mix of fear and anticipation.

And then, the day arrived.

The sun was high, glinting off the chain-link fences and the dew still clinging to the outfield grass. Seidou was alive with sound — the rhythmic clatter of bats, the chatter of players, and the faint echo of laughter from the first-year tours.

I stood near the fence, half-hidden in the shade, waiting.

And then I saw him.

Sawamura Eijun.

He stood beside Rei-chan, his brown hair slightly messy, his expression bright and fierce. He looked exactly like how I remembered him — loud, reckless, and alive. My throat tightened. For a moment, the world tilted.

He was here.
He was really here.

I’d replayed this moment in my head countless times, but nothing could have prepared me for the flood of emotion that hit me now — the joy, the disbelief, the aching relief that made my chest feel too small.

And then, true to form, he opened his mouth.

“Look at his stomach! Are you sure he’s a high school student and not a forty-year-old uncle? Can he really go pro with that belly? Ahahahaha!”

The field went quiet for a second. Then Azuma-senpai’s indignant voice roared across the yard.
“What did you just say about my adorable stomach, kid?”

Sawamura burst out laughing again. “Adorable? Don’t make me laugh!”

Azuma’s face twitched. He stepped closer, puffing his chest out — or rather, his belly. With a teasing grin, he shoved Sawamura lightly using it. “You’re asking for trouble, brat!”

The tour guides looked horrified. Rei-chan sighed, clearly used to this level of chaos.

But Sawamura, of course, didn’t back down.
“Do you even know baseball isn’t something you play alone?” he shot back, his voice echoing across the field. “Is this what a top-tier school is like? Letting senior players pick on the weak? Pathetic!”

His words sliced through the murmuring crowd, leaving a tense silence in their wake.

I couldn’t help it — my breath caught.
That voice. That spark. Those golden eyes that burned with challenge and pride.

That was him.
That was the Sawamura Eijun before everything went wrong — before the silence, before the shaking hands and the lost confidence.

This was the boy who still believed in the world.
And seeing him like this again made my chest ache so much I thought I might actually cry.

When Rei-chan finally stepped between them, she sighed deeply.
“Alright, that’s enough. Why don’t you settle this in the proper way — with baseball?”

I smiled faintly. Just like before.

Without thinking, I stepped forward. “If that’s the case, let me be the catcher.”

Everyone turned to me. Rei-chan blinked, startled.
Sawamura’s head snapped toward me, confusion flashing in his golden eyes.

“You— how do you even know I’m a pitcher?” he demanded.

I met his gaze, steady and calm, though my heart was pounding so hard it almost hurt. “Instinct,” I said simply.

His mouth opened slightly, as if he didn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

Inside, I was screaming.
No matter where or when I meet you, I’ll always know, Eijun.
Because you’ll always be my pitcher.

Rei-chan gave me a slightly skeptical look. “Just so you know, his pitches are… unique. Don’t underestimate him.”

I smiled. “All the more reason to be interested.”

As Sawamura stretched his arms and began his warm-up, I helped him without being asked — handing him the ball, correcting his stance just a little, even though I knew he’d complain.

He glanced at me, suspicious. “Why are you helping me?”

I shrugged, trying to keep my voice even. “I just want to see what you can do.”

And maybe, deep down, I just wanted to be near him again — to feel that energy, that unstoppable will that had once pulled our whole team forward.

When he climbed the mound, I followed him, steps slow and deliberate. The wind caught his hair, and for a brief moment, I caught the faint scent of sun and dirt — warm, familiar, achingly nostalgic.

Without thinking, I reached out and slung an arm around his shoulders.

He froze.

“W-What are you doing?!”

“Relax,” I murmured, smiling faintly. “Just getting the feel of my pitcher.”

He turned bright red, sputtering in protest, and I couldn’t help but laugh softly. God, I’d missed this.
The warmth of his skin. The way the sunlight clung to him. It was nothing like the cold, lifeless body I’d held last time.

This… this was real.

I pulled back, crouched behind the plate, and raised my glove. “Alright then. So, what kind of pitch do you have?”

Sawamura’s grin returned — wide, reckless, full of life.
“I’ve only ever thrown fastballs my whole life!”

A sharp laugh escaped me before I could stop it. “That’s adorable.”

His brow furrowed. “Adorable?! I’ll show you adorable!”

I chuckled, setting the glove firmly in place. “Alright, partner. Just trust my glove, okay?”

For a heartbeat, everything went silent.
Just the two of us — pitcher and catcher — locked in that invisible connection that only we understood.

I crouched back into position behind the plate, adjusting my mask.
Azuma-senpai stood at the batter’s box, spinning his bat with a confident smirk.

“I’ll send that ball of yours flying straight out of the field!” he declared, puffing out his chest.

I chuckled lowly, tilting my head. “Oh, sure, senpai. Try not to pull a muscle this time.”

Azuma’s eyebrow twitched. “You little—!”

But I was already signaling Sawamura.

He looked tense — shoulders a bit stiff, his brows drawn together. His grip on the ball wasn’t relaxed.
Of course he was nervous. This was his first time standing on Seidou’s mound, surrounded by upperclassmen, watched by potential coaches.

I lifted my glove and gave him a small nod.
Just like before, I placed my target right where Azuma-senpai loved his pitches — his “sweet spot.”

Sawamura’s eyes widened in alarm, but I knew what I was doing.
If he hit it cleanly, it would rattle Sawamura even more.
But if Sawamura saw that zone for himself, learned to trust his instinct — that’s when he’d really start to shine.

The wind brushed past us.

Sawamura’s windup was awkward, but the determination in his stance was unmistakable. He threw — wild and raw, but full of fire.

The ball cut through the air — and at the very last second, he twisted his wrist, changing its course.

Azuma-senpai swung. The loud CLANG! echoed through the field — a foul ball.

The crowd gasped, and I exhaled through a grin. Just like last time.

I stood up and called for a timeout. Jogging toward the mound, I rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Hey,” I said softly, “why did you change the ball’s direction?”

Sawamura frowned, looking a bit sheepish. “Because I felt like he was going to hit it.”

I chuckled, shaking my head. “You’re absolutely right. That was Azuma-senpai’s favorite spot.”

Azuma, from the plate, yelled, “Hey! Don’t tell him that!”

Sawamura pouted instantly, glaring at me. “See?! You are taking his side! Why should I even trust you?”

I smirked, leaning closer until our eyes met. “Because I’m doing this to help you relax. Take it easy and just trust my glove, okay, partner?”

He froze at the word. Then, with a stubborn huff, he muttered, “Fine…”

I almost laughed. His sulking face — the slight puff of his cheeks, the furrow in his brow — it was so ridiculously cute I had to stop myself from pinching his cheek right there.

We resumed the match.

Ball after ball, he grew steadier. His rhythm started syncing with mine — an unspoken tempo, familiar yet new.

Eleven pitches later, the result was clear:
Three balls.
Five fouls.
Three strikeouts.

Azuma-senpai groaned dramatically. “Ugh, this brat’s pitch isn’t normal…”

Before I could tease him, Sawamura marched up to him, hands on hips.
“Hey, metabolic senpai!” he barked, his tone half-angry, half-earnest. “You need to apologize to that senpai you mocked earlier! Even if he’s not the best, he’s still working hard! You can’t just laugh at someone’s effort!”

The field went silent for a moment — then soft laughter rippled through the onlookers.

Azuma blinked, then scratched his head awkwardly. “Yeah, yeah… you’re right. Sorry, Nori.”

Nori waved it off, clearly amused.

I couldn’t help smiling as I walked toward Sawamura again. That fiery sense of justice, that sincerity — it was all still there.
The same boy who’d once changed all of us without even realizing it.

“Hey,” I called as I reached him, tilting my head slightly. “What’s your name?”

He turned, blinking in surprise. “Huh? It’s Sawamura Eijun. And you, senpai?”

“I’m Miyuki Kazuya,” I said, smiling — that same easy, teasing smile I always wore. But my chest felt tight. “Hey, you’ll be coming to Seidou, right?”

His eyes widened a little. “I-I don’t know yet, senpai. This is all still new to me. I’ve never formed a real battery with anyone before. I want to be here… but I don’t want to leave my friends back home, either.”

He lowered his gaze, voice softening.

I wanted to tell him how much Seidou needed him. How much I needed him. But instead, I slipped a hand into my pocket and offered a different path.

“How about we exchange numbers?” I suggested casually. “You know — I could give you some training tips. Maybe a few drills to help you practice at home.”

His eyes went wide. “R-really? Why would you be so nice to help me?”

I smiled faintly. “Because you’re an interesting pitcher. You’ve got potential — the kind that doesn’t come around often. How should I say this…” I paused, the words thick on my tongue, heavier than they should’ve been. “I guess I’m just… looking forward to working with you someday.”

Sawamura blinked, then slowly grinned — wide, bright, blinding.
That same smile I’d seen so many times before.

“Alright, senpai! Don’t forget your promise!”

As I watched him laugh, the sunlight glinting in his golden eyes, something warm spread through my chest.

The field was quiet now.
Only the sound of the wind brushing across the grass and the faint hum of insects filled the air.
The others had wandered off — Rei-chan was talking with the coach near the car, and Azuma-senpai had gone to grab water.

It was just me and him.

Sawamura stood in the sunlight, the golden rays wrapping around him like a halo.
His hair, still messy and untamed, caught the light in all the right places.
The boy looked almost too bright for this world — so full of life and fire that it made my chest ache just looking at him.

And before I realized what I was doing, the word slipped past my lips, quiet but sure —

“Eijun.”

He froze.
His golden eyes widened, blinking at me in shock.

…Ah, crap.

My heart thudded once, hard, in my chest.
That definitely wasn’t like me — not the composed, teasing senpai I was supposed to be.

For a second, neither of us said anything.
The silence stretched, awkward and fragile, until even the sound of the wind felt too loud.

Sawamura’s cheeks began to redden — faint at first, then deepening until his entire face looked like it was on fire.

“My—my bad,” I blurted out quickly, scratching the back of my neck. “I didn’t mean to… uh, it just kind of slipped.”

He shook his head quickly, waving his hands in front of him.
“It’s okay, senpai! You can… you can call me Eijun. I don’t mind.”

The way he said it — so flustered yet so sincere — made my throat tighten.
There was something so honest about him, so open in a way that felt rare and painful to look at directly.

I nodded, a small, hesitant smile tugging at my lips.
“O-okay then. You can call me Kazuya-senpai too, if you want.”

Sawamura blinked, then stammered, “A-ah, o-okay… Kazuya-senpai.”

The way my name sounded in his mouth — unsure but warm — made something inside me twist.
It felt… too precious. Too dangerous.

He turned away quickly, trying to hide the way his blush spread to his ears, muttering something under his breath about how embarrassing this was.

I laughed softly, unable to help it.
It wasn’t a mocking laugh, just… gentle. Because he really was adorable when he got flustered like that.
And for a fleeting moment, I thought — maybe this was what I’d been missing all along.

Maybe this was what I was meant to protect.

Rei-chan’s voice broke the spell.
“Sawamura-kun! It’s time to head back to Nagano. I’ll drive you to the station — we don’t want you missing your train!”

Sawamura startled, turning toward her.
“Ah! Y-yes, Takashima-san!” He turned back to me, his hands tightening into fists at his sides, as if holding back something he wanted to say.

“Then… Kazuya-senpai, I’ll be going now,” he said finally, smiling nervously. “See you later!”

I forced myself to smile back, though part of me didn’t want this moment to end.
“Yeah. See you, Eijun. I’ll be waiting for you at Seidou in spring.”

He nodded quickly — still red, still smiling — before running off to meet Rei-chan by the car.

I watched as he waved one last time before the car door shut and they pulled away, dust rising behind the tires as the vehicle disappeared down the road.

And for a long moment, I just stood there, staring at the empty space where he’d been.

That warmth he left behind still lingered in the air — soft, unreal.
My chest felt too full.

I didn’t know how long I stood there, staring at the road where Rei-chan’s car had disappeared.
Even though I knew we’d meet again soon, a strange heaviness lingered in my chest. The idea of being apart from Sawamura — even for a short while — filled me with a quiet, irrational fear. I exhaled deeply, shaking my head, trying to laugh it off. And then, of course, Kuramochi’s voice cut through the still air like an obnoxious alarm clock.

“Kyahaha! What’s wrong, Miyuki? You look like a dog that just got abandoned by its owner!”

“What are you talking about, Kuramochi? I’m fine,” I replied flatly.

“Don’t lie to me, man. I can see it. You’re totally into that loud little pitcher! Is this it, huh? Has spring finally come for you?”

“Shut up, Kuramochi,” I muttered, brushing past him.

But his laughter followed me all the way down the field, echoing in that annoyingly carefree way of his. Typical Kuramochi — the guy couldn’t resist teasing, but somehow, it grounded me. Reminded me that I was still me, still here, still in this strange new timeline with a chance to make things right.

After exchanging numbers, Eijun and I started messaging each other almost every day.
To be more precise, he was the one who always started the conversation. My phone would buzz with a new text — random, loud, unfiltered messages like.

“Kazuya-senpai!! I ran 10 laps today!!” or “Guess what?! I finally managed to throw a curve—well, kinda!!”

He was still the same as ever — full of energy, honest to a fault, and just… bright.
Meanwhile, I sat there like an idiot, overthinking every reply. Talking about baseball was easy; it was safe, familiar. But whenever the topic shifted to daily life, I stumbled over what to say. Maybe I really was just a clueless guy falling headfirst into something he didn’t know how to handle.

Still, those messages became the highlight of my days.
Eijun told me about his practices at his local field, how his friends teased him for bragging about Seidou, how his parents started saving articles about our team. His teammates — apparently — were supporting him wholeheartedly. He said they told him, “If anyone can make it there, it’s you, Eijun. Go show them what you’ve got.”

Reading that made my chest tighten in a strange way.
He wasn’t just coming to Seidou by chance — he was coming with dreams, with faith in himself, and with people behind him cheering him on.

And then, in one message, he wrote:

“Kazuya-senpai, I’ll be at Seidou in the spring!! Please take care of me when I get there!”

I stared at the screen for a long moment before the corners of my mouth lifted into an unguarded smile.
That was it. That was all I needed to hear.

I typed back slowly,

“Of course. I’ll be waiting for you, Eijun.”

His reply came seconds later: “Really?! Yay!! I’ll do my best!!”
He added a bunch of emojis and unnecessary exclamation marks, but that was just so him — messy, loud, genuine.

And for the first time since all of this started — since the strange chance I’d been given to relive everything — I felt something inside me finally ease. The worry, the uncertainty, the fear of losing him again… it all faded.

He also said he’d started the training menu I’d given him. That line alone gave me something like relief. I’d asked Chris-senpai to help design it — Chris had a knack for balancing technique and protection, and Eijun’s body was deceptively flexible. If anyone could convert that flexibility into an advantage without breaking him, it was Chris.

So Chris and I tailored a plan: basic strength work to stabilize his shoulder, mobility drills to keep his hips and torso coordinated, and a graduated introduction to breaking pitches that wouldn’t force him to contort into damaging patterns. I wanted to make use of his elasticity — teach him to use his whole body, not just his arm. If he learned to throw movement without sacrificing control, maybe we could keep his arm healthy and his confidence intact.

Of course, Kuramochi didn’t let any of that seriousness go unmocked. He’d sidle up behind me whenever my phone buzzed and peer over my shoulder.

“Hey — don’t tell me you’ve got a girlfriend now. Why are you always on your phone?” he demanded one afternoon, peering at a thread of messages from Eijun. His tone was half teasing, half accusing.

“Not that anyone asked — unlike you, I’m a popular guy, Mochi-kun,” I shot back with manufactured bravado.

His face flushed red and he lunged forward as if to punch me. “You—glasses bastard! I’ll sock your ugly face—”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, raising my hands in mock-surrender.

“That was not a compliment, you idiot!” he snapped, which somehow read like affection.

Chapter Text

The days at Seidou were a blur of practice and exhaustion.
Between morning runs in the biting cold, batting drills that stretched into the afternoon, and the occasional scrimmage under a gray sky, time seemed to melt together. Even during short breaks, I found myself checking my phone — not for social media, but to monitor Eijun’s training.

He’d send me videos of his pitching form, clips of him running with his teammates, or breathless voice messages complaining about sore muscles.
I’d reply with short notes, sometimes teasing, sometimes giving real advice.
Maybe I was too invested. But seeing him train with that unshakable determination — it reminded me why I’d fallen in love with baseball in the first place.

Before I knew it, the long winter term had ended.
Coach Kataoka gave us one week off before the new spring semester began — a rare break for the team. As usual, the baseball club was among the last groups still staying on campus.

That evening, I leaned against the railing outside my dorm room.
The cold air stung my face, the late-winter sun barely warm against my skin. Down below, a few students were dragging suitcases toward the gate, laughing and waving goodbye. Some were heading home for the holidays, back to families who probably missed them.

I, on the other hand, wasn’t sure what “home” meant anymore.
Even if I went back, it’d be the same — my father working overtime, the house quiet. Nothing had really changed there. So maybe I’d just stay here, spend the break sleeping in and running some solo practice.

The sharp buzz of my phone broke my train of thought.
When I saw the sender, a faint smile tugged at my lips.

Eijun:

“Hey! So when do you guys get your break? If you want, you can come to my place! I-I mean, only if you want to! I’m not forcing you or anything!! Hmp!”

A second message followed right after:

“It’s not because I want you to come, okay?! It’s just—my mom keeps bugging me to ask you! Don’t get the wrong idea! I can already imagine that smug grin on your tanuki face!”

Pfft. I couldn’t help it — I laughed. Out loud.
This idiot never changed. Even through a screen, he was still as loud, awkward, and absolutely adorable as ever.

“What’s with that creepy smile, Miyuki?” Kuramochi’s voice came from the hallway, full of disgusted amusement. He leaned against the doorframe with his usual smirk.

“Nothing,” I said, hiding my grin behind my hand. “Just a funny message.”

“Funny, huh? Don’t give me that! You’ve got that disgusting love-struck face going on. What is it? Did your little lover invite you over or something?”

I sighed, because of course he’d figure it out instantly.
“Ugh, shut up.”

Kuramochi burst into laughter. “So it’s true! You lucky bastard — invited to your lover’s house for the holidays! Man, you’re hopeless.”

I glared at him. “You talk too much. Besides, it’s not like that. We’re not even… dating.”

That shut him up for half a second. Then his grin returned, wider than before.
“What?! You mean to tell me our Mr. Cool Catcher here hasn’t even confessed yet? You’re unbelievable! You can read a pitcher’s mind, but not your own heart!”

“Do you ever stop talking?” I muttered, rubbing my temples.

He ignored me, of course. “You should just go, man. Seriously. What’s the worst that can happen? You meet his family, eat good food, maybe win some brownie points with the parents. Sounds like a win to me!”

“Or a disaster,” I replied dryly. “What if they don’t like me? I’m not exactly great with small talk.”

Kuramochi chuckled. “Yeah, we all know that. But don’t overthink it. Just be yourself. That’s probably why the kid likes you anyway.”

Before I could answer, another message from Eijun appeared on the screen.

Eijun:

“Sorry, maybe I was too pushy. You probably already have plans for the break, right? Sorry for bothering you, Kazuya-senpai.”

My stomach twisted a little. Bothering me? Damn it.
No, Eijun — you never bother me. Why was I always like this? So slow to respond, so damn awkward when it mattered.

Kuramochi leaned closer, reading over my shoulder.
“Oh wow. Look at that. ‘Kazuya-senpai,’ huh? Damn, Miyuki, you made the poor kid sound heartbroken already! Come on, don’t chicken out now!”

I took a deep breath and typed back before I could second-guess myself.

“I’ll come.”

Kuramochi clapped me hard on the back, laughing. “There we go! Finally! The legendary Miyuki Kazuya takes a swing at romance! I’m proud of you, man. Go pack your things — and good luck meeting the parents!”

“Yeah, yeah,” I said, rolling my eyes, though I couldn’t help but smile.

As he walked away, his laughter echoed down the hall.
The dorm was quiet again, but my heart wasn’t. It was beating a little too fast — from nerves, excitement, maybe both.

I looked back down at my phone.
Eijun had already replied.

“Really?! You mean it?! That’s awesome!! I’ll tell Mom!! Don’t worry, I’ll pick you up at the station!”

For a moment, I just stared at his message.
Somewhere deep inside, I could almost hear his voice — bright, loud, brimming with life.

“Yeah,” I murmured to myself. “See you soon, Eijun.”

The announcement over the train’s intercom chimed brightly — too cheerfully for my liking.

“Next stop, Nagano Station.”

My stomach twisted.
Okay. Maybe… I can still back out. Maybe I can just stay on the train and go back to Tokyo.

The thought flickered through my mind like a coward’s whisper.
But then I remembered — the last time I ran away from him.
The last time I avoided saying what really mattered.
The look on Eijun’s face that day, before everything fell apart.

No. Not this time.

I clenched my fists and took a slow, steady breath.
“Okay, Kazuya,” I muttered to myself under my breath. “You already know what happens if you keep running away. Don’t screw this up again.”

The train screeched to a stop.
Doors slid open with a soft ding.
I stood, grabbing my duffel bag from the overhead rack. My legs felt heavier than usual, but I forced myself to move.

One step at a time.

The cool winter air hit my face as I stepped off the train.
My eyes scanned the platform, half-dreading, half-hoping to find him.

And then—

“KAZUYA-SENPAI!!”

That unmistakable voice cut through the crowd like sunlight breaking through clouds.

I turned just in time to see him — Sawamura Eijun, waving both arms above his head, beaming like he was the sun itself.

For a second, I froze.
Wow.

He looked exactly like the Eijun I remembered — bright, full of life, messy brown hair poking out beneath his beanie, golden eyes sparkling with excitement. My chest tightened painfully.

My heart was making far too much noise for my liking. Maybe it was the crowd. Maybe it was just… him.

Eijun jogged toward me, his breath visible in the cold air.
“Kazuya-senpai, welcome to Nagano!”

When I didn’t answer right away, he waved a hand in front of my face, frowning slightly. “Senpai? Earth to Kazuya-senpai?”

“O-oh, sorry,” I stammered, shaking my head a little. “Just spaced out for a second.”

Eijun grinned, his voice loud enough to draw a few glances from nearby commuters. “That’s okay! Come on, my parents are waiting outside! We don’t wanna freeze out here!”

“Right,” I said, hoisting my bag over my shoulder. “Lead the way.”

He practically bounced as he led me through the station gates and into the open air. The late-afternoon sun reflected off the snow, painting everything in soft gold. I followed quietly behind, my eyes tracing his back — that same, unchanging energy that had always drawn me in.

Outside the station, a gray family car idled by the curb.
A tall man stood beside it, waving at us. He had the same sharp jawline and warm gold eyes as Eijun — there was no mistaking it.

“Dad!” Eijun called, waving one hand high. “I brought Kazuya-senpai!”

“I can see that, son,” his father replied, his deep voice carrying easily across the lot. “You don’t have to shout like you’re calling from center field!”

Eijun puffed his cheeks. “You’re shouting too, old man!”

“EIJUN!” a voice scolded sharply from inside the car.
The window rolled down to reveal a woman with kind eyes and soft brown hair. “That’s not how you speak to your father! We have a guest!”

Eijun scratched his head sheepishly. “Ahaha, sorry, Mom.”

Then she turned her gaze toward me, smiling warmly. “You must be Miyuki-kun! Please forgive our noise — it’s always like this in our family. Come on, get in the car before you catch a cold.”

I bowed slightly. “Yes, thank you very much. I’m Miyuki Kazuya. Sorry for imposing on your family.”

“Oh, nonsense!” she laughed, waving her hand dismissively. “We’re happy to have you! I’m Mayu, and this is my husband, Eijirou. My father-in-law, Eitoku-san, is at home waiting to meet you too. Please just call me Mayu, alright? Everyone in this family is a Sawamura, so if you say ‘Sawamura-san,’ we might all answer!”

Her lighthearted tone made me chuckle despite my nerves. “Understood. Thank you for your hospitality, Mayu-san.”

“See, Mom? I told you he’s polite!” Eijun said proudly as we climbed into the car.

“Polite, yes,” his father said, glancing at me through the rearview mirror. “But quiet. Are you sure this guy is the same one who can handle your endless noise on the field?”

“Hey! What’s that supposed to mean, Dad?!” Eijun protested, glaring at him.

Their bickering filled the car with a comfortable warmth, so unlike the suffocating silence of my own home.
For a fleeting moment, I found myself smiling — really smiling.

Maybe this was what Eijun meant when he talked about family.
A place that was loud, messy, alive — but safe.

As we drove through the snowy countryside toward the Sawamura home, Eijun kept talking, gesturing animatedly about the local field, his friends, the mountain view, and how his mom’s curry was unbeatable.

I listened, nodding occasionally, every word from him pulling me deeper into a warmth I hadn’t felt in years.

Outside, the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold.
Inside, Eijun’s laughter filled the car — bright, contagious, and heartbreakingly familiar.