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A catcher learns to read pitchers the way other people read weather.
A twitch in the fingers means nerves.
A longer pause between breaths means fatigue.
A smile that comes half a second too late means pain.
I tell myself that’s why I noticed it first.
Sawamura Eijun’s fastball had lost its bite.
Not enough for the stands to notice. Not enough for the scoreboard to care. The speed gun still flashed respectable numbers, the rotation still danced just enough to draw weak contact. To everyone else, he looked like the same loud, relentless idiot who’d clawed his way onto the mound through sheer stubbornness.
But I’d been catching him for too long.
His release point was drifting.
His grip lingered on the seams like his fingers couldn’t quite remember where to go.
And between pitches—just for a moment—his shoulders sagged.
I squatted behind the plate and waited for him to look at me.
“Oi, Ace of Seidou,” I called, tapping my mitt. “You planning to pitch today, or are you just sightseeing?”
He grinned like always. Wide. Bright. Too bright.
“I am pitching! Don’t rush me, Miyuki-senpai!”
There it was again. That delay. The smile arrived, but his eyes lagged behind it, unfocused for a fraction of a second before snapping back into place.
I should’ve called time then.
Instead, I gave him the sign.
Fastball. Inside.
The pitch came in just a hair late. The batter fouled it off instead of shattering it into Sawamura’s mitt the way he usually did. A harmless sound. A harmless result.
My chest felt tight anyway.
By the third inning, Kuramochi had noticed.
“He’s dragging,” Kuramochi muttered as he took his position. “Oi, Miyuki. You seein’ this?”
“Yeah,” I said lightly. “He’s fine.”
It was a lie. Not a big one. Just enough to get us through the inning.
Sawamura shook his arm out between pitches, breathing harder than usual. Sweat darkened his uniform faster than the heat alone should’ve caused. When I threw the ball back, his catch was clumsy—fingers fumbling before closing around it.
That one finally made me stand.
“Time,” I called, stepping forward. “You okay?”
Sawamura blinked at me like I’d spoken a foreign language.
“Eh? Yeah! Totally!” He laughed, loud and sharp. “Why?”
Up close, I could see it clearly now. The faint tremor in his hands. The way his lips were dry, cracked at the corners. His eyes—normally sharp with ridiculous enthusiasm—looked dull around the edges.
“How many fingers?” I asked, holding up my hand.
“Five!” he snapped immediately, then frowned. “What’s with you, Miyuki-senpai?”
I held his gaze a second longer than necessary.
“Just checking if you’re still human.”
He laughed again, relief obvious. I turned back toward the plate.
Another lie added to the pile.
The inning should’ve ended clean.
Instead, Sawamura missed low. Ball.
Missed outside. Ball.
Overcorrected—hit the dirt.
The stadium murmured.
“Focus!” I snapped, sharper than I meant to.
“I am!” he yelled back, and then—
His knees buckled.
It wasn’t dramatic. No slow-motion collapse, no gasp from the crowd at first. Just a sudden, wrong angle to his body, like someone had yanked the strings holding him upright.
Sawamura hit the mound on one knee, tried to push himself up—and tipped forward.
I was moving before I registered the sound of his body hitting the dirt.
“Sawamura!”
The world narrowed to the mound. I barely registered the umpire calling time, Kuramochi sprinting in from shortstop, the dugout erupting behind us.
Sawamura was conscious. That was the first thing I checked.
His eyes were open, glassy and unfocused. His breathing was shallow, uneven.
“Hey,” I said, crouching beside him. “Hey, Eijun. Look at me.”
He tried. Failed. His gaze slid past my face.
“Mi… yuki… sen… pai?” His voice was slurred, thick.
Kuramochi swore under his breath. “What the hell—”
“Don’t move,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. “Just stay still.”
The trainer was there now, hands quick and practiced, checking pulse, pupils, skin temperature.
“He’s burning up,” the trainer muttered.
“And he’s dehydrated.”
“I drank water,” Sawamura protested weakly. “I swear…”
“Shut up,” Kuramochi snapped, panicked edges bleeding through. “Save it.”
As they lifted him onto the stretcher, Sawamura’s fingers curled weakly into my sleeve.
“Miyuki-senpai,” he whispered. “Did I mess up?”
The question hit harder than any accusation.
“No,” I said immediately. Too quickly. “You didn’t mess up.”
His grip loosened as they carried him off the field.
I stayed on the mound long after they were gone, mitt heavy in my hands, staring at the darkened patch of dirt where he’d fallen.
A catcher notices things.
Sometimes not soon enough.
****
The hospital smelled like disinfectant and quiet fear.
Sawamura lay hooked up to monitors, color slowly returning to his face as fluids dripped into his arm. The beeping of the heart monitor was steady. Too steady. Like it was mocking the chaos in my head.
Coach Kataoka stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The rest of us hovered awkwardly near the door—Kuramochi pacing, Kanemaru stiff and silent, Haruichi clutching his cap like a lifeline.
Furuya stood apart, eyes fixed on the floor.
A doctor entered, clipboard in hand.
“He collapsed due to severe hyperglycemia,” she said calmly. “We ran blood tests. His blood sugar levels were extremely high.”
I frowned. “Blood sugar?”
She nodded. “He has Type 1 diabetes.”
The words landed quietly.
Too quietly.
Kuramochi blinked. “Dia… what?”
“It means his pancreas isn’t producing insulin,” the doctor explained. “It’s not something caused by diet or training. It’s autoimmune. His body attacked itself.”
Sawamura stirred at that, brow furrowing. “So… I’m sick?”
“Yes,” she said gently. “But it’s manageable. With insulin therapy, monitoring, lifestyle adjustments—”
“Can I still pitch?”
The room went silent.
I held my breath.
The doctor met his eyes. “With proper management and medical clearance, many athletes continue their sports. But it will require discipline. And understanding your limits.”
Sawamura stared at the ceiling.
“Oh,” he said.
Just that.
“Oh.
Later, after visiting hours ended, I stayed.
I told the others I’d catch up. It wasn’t a lie. I just didn’t say when.
Sawamura slept, face slack and unguarded. Without the noise, without the grin, he looked younger. Smaller.
I sat in the chair beside his bed and watched the rise and fall of his chest.
A catcher notices patterns.
The missed signs.
The delayed smiles.
The fatigue that wasn’t just overtraining.
I pressed my hands together, elbows resting on my knees.
If I’d pulled him sooner.
If I’d called time.
If I’d trusted what I saw instead of what I wanted to believe.
Sawamura shifted in his sleep, murmuring something unintelligible.
I reached out without thinking, adjusting the blanket around his shoulders.
“Don’t worry,” I murmured quietly. “I’ve got you.”
The words felt like a promise.
And promises, I knew, were dangerous things.
****
Sawamura Eijun hated being watched.
I learned that the hard way.
The first week after the diagnosis, the team treated him like glass. Not fragile—Seidou didn’t know how to do fragile—but carefully handled, like one wrong grip might shatter something important.
Sawamura noticed immediately.
“You don’t have to stare,” he snapped one afternoon, shoving his glove into his bag. “I’m not gonna explode.”
Kuramochi froze mid-motion. Haruichi’s hand tightened around the towel he’d been holding out. Kanemaru looked away like he’d been caught doing something wrong.
I leaned against the locker, arms crossed.
“Good,” I said lightly. “Explosions are messy.”
Sawamura scowled at me. “You too, Miyuki-senpai?”
I met his eyes. Didn’t look away.
“Especially me.”
That was the problem.
Sawamura had been cleared for light practice. No mound work yet, no full bullpen sessions. Blood sugar checks before and after activity. Insulin injections. A routine that suddenly dictated his days.
He followed it.
Mostly.
At least, that’s what he let the coaches see.
What he didn’t do was care.
He skipped snacks. Rolled his eyes when the trainer reminded him to check his levels. Delayed injections until the last possible second. Laughed it off when Kuramochi yelled at him.
“I feel fine!” he insisted, mouth full of convenience-store bread. “You guys worry too much!”
Fine, to Sawamura, meant he could still run until his lungs burned. Still throw until his shoulder screamed. Still grin like nothing had changed.
I watched the numbers instead.
The trainer showed me once—probably shouldn’t have, but he trusted me. I’d asked too calmly. Too precisely.
Sawamura’s readings swung more than they should’ve.
High. Low. Then dangerously low.
“Is he injecting properly?” I asked.
The trainer hesitated.
That was answer enough.
****
The night it happened, the dorm was quiet.
Too quiet.
I was half-asleep, sprawled on my bed, replaying signs in my head—habit I couldn’t break—when something felt off.
Not a sound. Not a thought.
A gap.
I sat up.
Across the room, Sawamura’s bed was still. Too still.
“Oi,” I muttered. “Sawamura.”
No answer.
I frowned, swinging my legs off the bed. He usually snored. Loud. Obnoxious. A sound you could set your watch by.
I stepped closer.
“Sawamura.”
His face was pale. Sweat soaked through his hair, plastering it to his forehead. His breathing was shallow, uneven. His hands twitched against the sheets.
My stomach dropped.
“Hey,” I said sharply, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.”
Nothing.
I shook him harder.
“Sawamura!”
His eyes fluttered, unfocused, lips parting like he wanted to speak but couldn’t.
Hypoglycemia.
Low blood sugar.
I moved on instinct.
“Kuramochi!” I shouted, throwing open the door. “Get the trainer—now!”
He was awake instantly. One look at my face and he bolted.
I grabbed the emergency glucose gel from Sawamura’s desk—the one he’d complained about carrying around, the one he said he’d never need.
My hands were steady. My chest wasn’t.
“Eijun,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “Hey. You with me?”
I squeezed a small amount of gel into his mouth, rubbing his throat gently to encourage swallowing like the trainer had shown us.
“Come on,” I whispered. “Don’t you dare check out on me.”
His jaw clenched weakly. A swallow.
“Good,” I breathed. “That’s good.”
The door burst open. The trainer.
Kuramochi. Haruichi right behind him, eyes wide and terrified.
“Blood sugar,” I said quickly. “He skipped his injection again.”
Kuramochi’s face went white. “That idiot—”
“Later,” the trainer snapped, already working. “Miyuki, keep talking to him.”
I leaned close.
“Hey,” I said, softer now. “Remember what you said? About being the Ace?”
His eyelids fluttered.
“You don’t get to quit halfway,” I murmured. “Not like this.”
Minutes stretched. Seconds dragged.
Finally—finally—his breathing evened out. Color crept back into his cheeks.
The trainer exhaled slowly. “He’s stabilizing.”
My knees almost gave out.
Sawamura’s eyes focused at last.
“…Miyuki… senpai?”
I laughed shakily. “Yeah. You’re alive. Congratulations.”
He frowned weakly. “Why are you… mad?”
I realized then my jaw hurt from how tightly I’d been clenching it.
The next morning, I snapped.
Full bullpen. Coach gone. Trainers busy. Just us.
Sawamura laughed as he taped his fingers, talking about how close he’d been to sneaking in extra pitches.
I grabbed his wrist.
Hard.
The room went silent.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, yanking back.
“Stop,” I said.
He blinked. “What?”
“I said stop.” My voice was low. Controlled. “You think last night was funny?”
His grin faded. “It was just a little scare—”
“A little scare?” The words tore out of me. “You almost passed out in your sleep!”
“So what?” he shot back. “I’m fine now!”
“No,” I said sharply. “You’re not.”
The others froze. Furuya looked up, eyes sharp. Kuramochi’s hands curled into fists.
“You don’t get to decide that anymore,” I continued. “Not on your own.”
Sawamura’s eyes burned. “So what, huh? I’m supposed to live like a patient now? Count numbers instead of pitches?”
“Yes,” I said. “If that’s what it takes.”
He laughed, harsh and brittle. “Easy for you to say! You’re not the one whose body just—just betrayed you!”
“That’s enough,” Kanemaru muttered, voice tight.
Sawamura rounded on me. “You don’t get it, Miyuki-senpai! Baseball’s all I have!”
I stepped closer.
“So you think dying helps?” I snapped.
The word hit like a slap.
Silence.
Sawamura stared at me, shocked. Hurt. Angry.
“I’m not letting you throw your life away because you’re scared,” I said quietly. “And yeah—you are scared. I can see it.”
His shoulders trembled.
“I don’t want to be different,” he whispered.
Haruichi moved first, gentle hand on his back. “You already are,” he said softly. “That’s never stopped you before.”
Kuramochi scoffed. “You’re still an idiot. Just… a living one.”
Even Furuya spoke, voice low. “You need to stay. So I can beat you.”
Sawamura laughed weakly. Then he sagged.
“…I don’t know how,” he admitted.
I exhaled, tension bleeding out of me at last.
“Then learn,” I said. “I’ll watch you. Every inning. Every number. You don’t have to do it alone.”
He looked up at me.
“You promise?”
I nodded. “I’m your catcher.”
And for the first time since the mound, since the hospital, since the numbers and needles and fear—
Sawamura smiled.
Not bright.
Not loud.
But real.
****
The thing about routines is that they don’t announce themselves.
They creep in quietly, between morning practice and lights-out, between loud laughter and long silences. One day you realize you’re counting something you never counted before, watching something you used to ignore.
For me, it became Sawamura.
Not the pitcher. The person.
I learned the sound his alarm made—the one he used to remind himself to check his blood sugar. A short, irritating chime he pretended not to hate. I learned the way his mood shifted when his levels dipped too fast, how his jokes went flat, how his steps dragged just a little.
I learned when to push.
And when to sit down next to him and say nothing at all.
He still complained.
“Why do I have to eat now?” he groaned one afternoon, glaring at the snack Haruichi had quietly placed on his desk.
“Because you’ll be unbearable in twenty minutes if you don’t,” I said, flipping through game footage.
Kanemaru snorted. “He’s unbearable even when he does.”
Sawamura threw a pencil at him—weakly—but ate anyway.
Small victories.
Not every day was good.
Some mornings he woke up furious at the world, jabbing the needle into his arm with more force than necessary, jaw clenched like he was daring someone to comment. I pretended not to notice.
Commenting made it worse.
Other days, he hovered too close to normal, laughing too loud, training too hard, like if he ran fast enough he could outrun the numbers.
Those days scared me the most.
The trainers eased him back onto the mound slowly. First flat-ground throws. Then short bullpen sessions. I caught every one.
“You don’t have to,” I told him once, when he looked uncomfortable with how close I was hovering. “There are other catchers.”
He shook his head. “No. You notice stuff.”
I swallowed.
“Yeah,” I said. “I do.”
The first time his blood sugar dipped during practice, I saw it before he did.
His pitch tailed off. His breathing stuttered. The grip lingered too long on the seams.
I stood up.
“Time,” I called.
He frowned. “What? I’m fine—”
“Sit,” I said, firm.
He hesitated. Then—miracle of miracles—he listened.
Kuramochi tossed him a drink without comment. Haruichi handed him something wrapped neatly in plastic. Kanemaru turned his back, giving him space. Furuya watched silently from the bullpen, eyes sharp.
No one laughed.
No one treated him like he was broken.
Later that night, as we walked back to the dorms, Sawamura scratched the back of his neck.
“…Thanks,” he muttered.
I smiled, small and private. “Anytime.”
****
He still hated the word diabetes.
Still flinched when reporters asked about his “condition.” Still stiffened when opponents whispered about it in passing.
But he stopped pretending it wasn’t there.
That mattered.
One night, weeks after the scare, I woke to the sound of movement. Not panic.
Not silence.
Just rustling.
Sawamura sat on his bed, meter glowing faintly in the dark, expression tired but calm.
“You okay?” I asked quietly.
He nodded. “Yeah. Just… checking.”
I lay back down.
For the first time since the mound, since the hospital, since that terrifying stillness in the dark—
I slept without one eye open.
Baseball didn’t change.
Not really.
The mound was still the mound. The batter still glared. The ball still cut through the air, stubborn and fast.
But Sawamura changed.
Not weaker.
Just… aware.
And I changed too.
A catcher notices things.
But now, when I notice something wrong—
I don’t wait.
****
The first official game Sawamura Eijun pitched after everything, I crouched behind the plate and waited for the moment my chest would tighten.
It never came.
The stadium buzzed the way it always did, loud and impatient and hungry for results. The crowd didn’t know what it meant that Sawamura stood on the mound again. They didn’t know about hospital lights, about numbers that could turn dangerous in minutes, about nights where the wrong kind of silence could stop your heart.
That was fine.
This wasn’t their story.
Sawamura adjusted his cap and glanced at me. Not grinning. Not shouting. Just a small nod—grounded, steady.
I gave the sign.
Fastball. Outside.
He exhaled first. Long. Controlled. The pitch snapped into my mitt, clean and sharp.
Strike.
The sound echoed through me.
Good.
The inning unfolded carefully—not cautiously. There was intent in every pitch, awareness in every pause. When I called time and walked to the mound, he met me halfway.
“You good?” I asked quietly.
He nodded. “Checked before the inning.”
“Anything off?”
“No.”
His eyes were clear. His hands steady.
“Then finish it,” I said.
As I turned back, he stopped me.
“Miyuki-senpai.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“…Thanks.”
No theatrics. No bravado. Just truth.
I smirked. “Focus.”
The last pitch was a cutter, biting hard at the edge of the zone. Ground ball. Inning over.
The dugout exploded when he walked off the mound. Kuramochi slammed an arm around his shoulders. Haruichi smiled like he was holding something fragile and precious. Kanemaru shouted something I couldn’t hear. Even Furuya watched from the fence, eyes tracking Sawamura like he always had—quiet, relentless.
Sawamura laughed, loud and familiar.
But now I knew the difference.
Before, he pitched like he had nothing to lose.
Now, he pitched like he knew exactly what he was protecting.
Later, when the stadium emptied and the noise finally settled into memory, I found him sitting alone on the bench, towel draped around his neck.
Tired—but the good kind.
“You did well,” I said.
He grinned. “Obviously.”
I sat beside him anyway.
After a while, he spoke again, staring at the floor.
“I thought if I admitted it mattered,” he said quietly, “baseball would leave me behind.”
I didn’t interrupt.
“But it didn’t,” he continued. “It just… made me pay attention.”
He glanced at me. “You always did that. Even when I didn’t want you to.”
I leaned back, hands laced behind my head.
“That’s my job,” I said. “Catcher’s duty.”
He smiled—not bright, not forced. Just steady.
“Then don’t stop,” he said. “Even if I complain.”
I snorted. “Especially then.”
He laughed, and there was no fear under it.
Not anymore.
A catcher learns to read pitchers.
The signs they give.
The signs they miss.
The ones they’re afraid to acknowledge.
Sawamura Eijun still chased the mound like it owed him something. Still threw reckless fastballs. Still dreamed too loudly.
But now, when I gave him a sign—
He answered.
Every time.