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i’m in town, Kazuya texts after Mei’s done eating breakfast, piling the dishes haphazardly on the counter.
It’s been years since the last time—no, Mei’s being dramatic, it’s been months, months since they last saw each other, before one of them or the other was off again. They don’t meet up regularly by any means, but once in a while a text will come pinging in out of the blue, when he’s in the middle of practice or late at night. And sooner or later, Mei will answer it and grab his coat.
Mei considers running a dish under the water to distract himself. He has his pride, after all, and number one ace in Japan or no, an immediate text back looks kind of pathetic. I was busy, he imagines explaining, self-important, in a conversation that will never happen.
Then his phone buzzes again.
where are you? Kazuya asks, matter-of-fact, as if he hadn’t just done something a little revolutionary. i’ll come to you.
~
They’ve done the hotel thing more than a few times, which Mei liked because it set a thrill at the edge of his consciousness, a taste of scandal that had him burying giggles in Kazuya’s shoulder, smirking wickedly at the ceiling as he imagined the papers plastered with the news, the torrid, shocking affair between two of the greatest baseball players in Japan. Besides, it’s nice to be able to order room service afterwards, to sit up against fluffed hotel pillows and lounge around like a king, pretend cigarette clasped between his fingers.
Kazuya rolled his eyes when he told him once, basking in the afterglow. “Or maybe,” he deadpanned, tilting his head, “it was just the easiest meeting point between us.” Mei had pinched his cheek for that, then leaned in with his mouth.
They don’t put a name to it, and in the past Mei hadn’t wanted to. It was enough to see Kazuya, to touch him and be touched, to relish in the way his smile curved, slow and then hungry. It was no change from high school or any other time in their lives anyway, how often they were able to see each other. It was nice to know that Kazuya was still thinking about him, because Mei was. There were other people, he knew that, but that wasn’t the point; the point was the space they carved out of time and distance when it was just the two of them together, how Kazuya laughed when Mei grabbed his collar before he even set his suitcase down.
But Mei is Mei, and eventually enough becomes barely, and then not at all. They had fought before, once when they had a whole weekend together and Mei got greedy at the end of it.
“Text me when you get there,” he singsonged, swinging his leg over the edge of the bed, as Kazuya was putting his shirt back on. “Actually, text me before that, too. Why don’t we talk more often?”
Kazuya didn’t answer, but Mei could see a sort of stillness settle over his shoulders.
“You can’t be that busy, can you? Even I’m not that busy, and I’m starting in the game next week, not to mention all the interviews I have to prepare for and—”
“Mei,” Kazuya said, “drop it.”
Defiance reared its head inside him, tightening his fists around the sheets. “Why? Why can’t you just be normal about this?”
Kazuya wasn’t looking at him, but Mei could see the set of his jaw anyway, the steeliness in his eyes. “I have a train to catch.”
“You don’t get to just hide behind this brooding mysterious thing, okay, it doesn’t work—”
But it did, because then the room was empty, leaving him to kick at the ground and choke back stupid tears.
Mei learned to bite his tongue after that, because that was just how Kazuya was, the type to run away if he was pushed, the inverse of quicksand answering a struggle. But Mei had never been any good at letting go. He clenched his teeth and tried not to give Kazuya the satisfaction, miles away, of worrying if he would text him next time they were both around, because who gave a damn anyway? But the text came anyway the next time, point A to point B and somewhere in between that they would find, both of them fighting their way toward a compromise.
Meet in the middle, that was what Kazuya said, but he never lived by it. Every time Mei woke up in the morning, he was already gone.
~
When everything changes, it doesn’t at all; it changes subtly, in the midst of a completely ordinary day.
Mei heads to the station anyway, the one closest to his place, feeling the shift all around him, in the cool early autumn air and the pavement and the people he passes, everywhere and impossible to pin down at once. Kazuya was always like that too, unpredictable even within his habits; meanwhile, Mei is discovering the habits within his own unpredictability.
i’m at home, he had texted back. wait for me at the station tho. Kazuya didn’t message back, but it doesn't slow him down.
“Kazuya!” Mei spots him instantly, striding out of the platform with a small suitcase in tow. He feels full to bursting, the word out of his mouth before his brain is done even fully registering the sight of him: tousled hair, a new jacket Mei’s never seen, scarf wound badly around his neck. Mei’s fingers itch to fix it.
Kazuya doesn’t wave back, but Mei can see his mouth curl into a smile, him lowering his chin the slightest bit as he wheels his suitcase toward him. He has a sudden, wild longing to press this moment into a still photograph, a memento.
“What’s the rush? I said I’d come to you,” Kazuya teases when he walks up.
“You know I don’t like to wait,” Mei answers, still managing to tilt his chin at the right angle though all he can think about is how much he wants to kiss him, right here in the middle of the station next to the people swiping their IC cards. “Need any help?”
Kazuya raises an eyebrow. He reaches a mock hand forward, stretching toward Mei’s forehead. “Geez, you’re feeling charitable today. Are you feeling well?”
Mei knocks his hand aside, feeling his fingers twine around Kazuya’s for a moment, skin warm against his, callouses against callouses. Their eyes don’t leave each other, and that’s when he’s certain that Kazuya feels it too.
“Only because you’re a charity case,” he retorts, and listens to Kazuya chuckle as they fall into step with each other.
“It’s only one suitcase. And your apartment’s a what, five minute walk?”
“Longer than that.” And maybe even longer; Kazuya’s always worked within his own time frame, an analog Mei couldn’t see or read, only bide his time. He tucks his hands into his pockets and watches the leaves flutter, slow and easy, onto the road. They’ve walked down the street together before, but this feels different somehow, lighter, like they have all the time in the world.
“How long are you here this time?” he asks a minute later, chewing his lip, as hesitant as Narumiya Mei ever gets.
“Hmm, I dunno,” Kazuya answers, and Mei can hear a grin in his voice even though he doesn’t look. “But I think arrangements can be made.”
“Good,” he answers, punch-fast, “because we have a lot to catch up on.”
And they do, about baseball and travel and everything else, and Mei listens to Kazuya’s laughter follow him the rest of the way home.