Chapter Text
Kazuya doesn’t particularly like math, but for as long as he can remember, he’s always been good with numbers. To be fair, he also can’t really remember caring for much outside of baseball for as long as he can remember, either. But he likes things that have answers, that can be proven, that make sense.
Sawamura is not one of those things. Sure, he’s a simpleton—no one is arguing against that—and at times, it feels like he is the most predictable person to have ever stepped foot into Seidou High School. And yet, since day one, he’s managed to keep Kazuya on his toes.
Kazuya’s good at reading people. He loves to pick apart patterns, anticipate what someone’s next move will be. It’s what drew him to playing the part of catcher all those years ago (that and the fact that catcher’s mitt was different and that felt important), and it’s what keeps him at the top of his game now. But being at the top can be a little isolating, especially when you’re trying to stay two steps ahead of everyone.
Sawamura doesn’t work like that, though—he never has. Since the first day Kazuya met him, Sawamura brazenly charged ahead at full force, clawing his way to where Kazuya stood, desperate to prove himself. Greedy, even. Unafraid of a challenge.
The only thing Kazuya loves more than logic is a challenge.
Well, that and pitchers with control. And so when Sawamura boldly approaches him one day after practice and demands that Kazuya help him refine his pitching repertoire, Kazuya is elated and offers a new system as a solution.
1.
“Last one,” calls Kazuya, shifting his weight between his feet. They’ve been at it for about a half hour now and he can feel the toes in his right foot starting to go numb. The practice game today had been long and the weather is warmer than usual for this time of year; it has him yearning for the cool side of his pillow. And yet—
“Understood!” shouts Sawamura, voice bouncing around the walls of the indoor training facility as if the concept of rest is the farthest thing from his mind (it always is, Kazuya sighs inwardly).
Evenings find them in here more often than not nowadays, and as much as his instinct tells him to harp on Sawamura about it, Kazuya can’t deny it’s been invigorating. He’s spent years figuring out how to bring the best out of the pitchers at Seidou, but this is the first time that it feels like someone has risen to his challenge, pushing him to test the limits of his role in a battery.
Kazuya can’t deny he’s had personal investment in Sawamura as a pitcher; catching for him has always been exhilarating, like Kazuya can almost feel the fire igniting the ends of Sawamura’s fingertips on his own, but the pitcher’s growth over the last year has been nothing short of inspirational. What used to be Sawamura desperately calling after Kazuya to catch wild pitches fueled only by pure passion is now two heads as one, composing entire movements of baseball like an orchestra. Like continuously putting the right piece of a puzzle into place, Kazuya hasn’t known baseball could be even more fun.
Kazuya smirks privately at the thought as Sawamura readies himself. He’s grown some, Kazuya muses, or maybe the extra centimeters are from the confidence of being the ace. Any other arguments aside, there’s no denying Sawamura has worn the number prouder than anyone else.
Sawamura takes a moment, centering his focus in a way that shuts out everything except Kazuya. He winds up, power pulsing so strongly through the tips of his fingers down to the souls of his shoes, energy bound taut inside him like a shaken bottle of soda, eyes raging like a wildfire as they sear into Kazuya’s own. For a moment, he is hauntingly still. Kazuya shifts his weight once more, motions with his index finger, and nods.
The ball hurtles towards him, launched from behind Sawamura’s left shoulder like a bullet, before cutting right at the plate, just where Kazuya hoped it would. Fatigue be damned, he can’t help but smile at the beautiful sound it makes as it strikes his mitt.
Sawamura, of course, does not miss this. Before Kazuya can even open his mouth to compliment him, the pitcher points directly at him. “Did you see that! It was perfect! I am Mr. Cutter! King of the Cutter! Mr. King of the Cutter!” The light in Sawamura’s eyes is somehow fiercer: chest lightly heaving, fingers flexing, he looks like he could probably throw about ten more perfect pitches, and for a moment Kazuya briefly considers letting him.
Instead, he swallows back whatever nice words he’d been about to say and rolls his eyes. But yeah, it was a damn good pitch; he makes a mental note to mention it to the coach later. His knees creak in protest as he stands up and heads towards Sawamura whose head is now tossed back in maniacal laughter. It should be more annoying than it is, but Kazuya has long gotten used to the phenomenon that is Sawamura Eijun.
“Okay, Mr. King of the Cutter,” Kazuya says, knocking the pitcher upside the head with his mitt. “That’s it for tonight. Bedtime.”
The telltale sound of the expected retort barely makes it off Sawamura’s tongue before Kazuya cuts him off and brushes past him. “Nope, we’re done here.”
Sawamura bristles, following after Kazuya like a hungry puppy at his heels. “But this whole numbers thing was your idea!”
“Haha, yeah it was!” Kazuya laughs, tossing his bag over his shoulder and heading out the door. “God knows it wouldn’t have come out of your dense head!” He doesn’t point out that the initial idea did come from Sawamura, actually—it was a joint effort in the end. But Sawamura is an easy target, and Kazuya is a moth to a flame.
“MIYUKI KAZUYA!” is all Sawamura says, proving Kazuya’s point as he stomps up to his side, loudly falling into step. It’s late, and he’s tired, but Kazuya lets him, Sawamura’s aggravated grumbles blurring into a familiar hum beside him.
Kazuya doesn’t realize he’s broken a sweat until the chilled air outside hits the bare skin of his arms. So much for that summer heat, he thinks as he hikes his bag up further on his shoulder to huddle for warmth. Sawamure talks animatedly next to him, irritation already melted away, none the wiser of the change in temperature.
“I was thinking of how to improve the cutter, actually,” he says then, fingers grasping in front of him, brow furrowing as he tilts his eyes up towards the sky like he’s trying to ask the stars for help on how to phrase his thoughts.
“Oh?” Kazuya prompts. There’s a sudden loss of warmth next to him; Kazuya realizes Sawamura has stopped a few steps back and turns around to look at him.
Sawamura mimics winding up, lithe arms extending above his head, before lunging into a cross-step, body twisting in a way that would have looked a little grotesque on anyone else. He immediately straightens, eyebrows scrunching up further as he goes back to peering at his fingers. “I just…I was thinking if maybe I change the grip somehow–?”
“It could be even sharper,” Kazuya finishes, a little breathless as he catches Sawamura’s eyes. His heart picks up a beat at the thought of how the course would change. He hadn’t considered that as an option for Sawamura. “Shit, yeah, that’s genius.”
Sawamura wastes no time in going through the movements again, shutting his eyes tightly—Kazuya can almost imagine the baseball field Sawamura’s envisioning—and shifting his fingers experimentally. As he whips his arm down, a chilled whoosh of air hits Kazuya, raising the hair on his forearms. Oh yeah, it’s late.
“Oi, that’s enough for now,” he says, stepping up to Sawamura and placing a hand on his shoulder, warmth seeping through the thin fibers of his t-shirt. Sawamura’s eyes immediately pop open, pupils blown after having been lost in his imagination, and land on Kazuya’s hand before glancing up at him.
“You really think that’s genius?” he says, voice surprisingly quiet. It’s an interesting change.
Kazuya drops his hand and keeps walking, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his joggers as Sawamura falls into step beside him once again. “Well, yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious (because it is). “I think we should make sure we don’t get ahead of ourselves, of course, because your cutter is looking great these days and I don’t want you to mess up your form at all…but if we could make some adjustments, maybe…” he trails off, mind moving too fast for his mouth to keep up.
“Thanks, Miyuki Kazuya,” Sawamura says as they reach the dorm steps, still in that small voice, but the night is quiet enough that Kazuya hears it loud and clear.
“For what?” Kazuya asks from a couple steps up as he turns to face the pitcher. He wiggles an eyebrow, lips twitching up into a smirk. “Always catching for you when you bother me?”
Sawamura doesn’t look at him right away, but when he does, he’s smiling. “Something like that.”
2.
There’s little that Kazuya values above sleep. Yeah, he’s had his fair share of comments from teammates about “beauty sleep” because of his eye mask, but Kazuya learned how to deal with bullies long ago. And unlike back then, he knows that these guys don’t really mean it. And if they do, well, Kazuya just reminds them who has the best shoulder on the team. And threatens them with a couple laps for safe measure.
So it’s with intense ire (and a gut-clenching charley horse) that he’s jerked into consciousness by several sharp knocks on his door.
He waits a moment to see if Kimura or Okumura will get up first, but when the next round of knocks is followed up with a boisterous “Rise and shine, Cap!” Kazuya shoves his eyemask into his hair and blearily hauls himself out of bed.
He trudges across the room, tripping over a bag in his wake, and opens the door without a word, and before Sawamura’s inhale can erupt into sound, Kazuya quickly shoves a hand over his open mouth.
Peering into the darkness, he can barely make out Sawamura’s bewildered gaze. He’s muttering what are surely crass words under Kazuya’s fingers, which only press tighter against the boy’s lips in response. At that, Sawamura goes swiftly silent. Kazuya can feel Sawamura’s face heating up under his heavy palm; he uses the moment of respite to shut the door behind him.
“What in the ever living hell do you need?” Kazuya asks as he drops his hand, not awake enough to put the appropriate amount of acid behind his words.
Sawamura doesn’t answer.
Kazuya squints at him. He can’t make out the details, but he can tell that the boy is gawking at him. Sawamura’s always been an open book, but after years spent analyzing his every emotion on the field, Kazuya hardly needs to see his face to guess what’s going on in Sawamura’s head, even if he can’t fathom the reason behind it.
“What?” he prompts again, annoyance fizzling away into curiosity.
“We have a game today.”
Sawamura speaks like he’s choosing his words carefully, but even in his sleep-muddled brain Kazuya knows that can’t be right.
“Yes, I know that,” Kazuya says, catching the blurred movement of Sawamura’s fussing hands. “And most people would agree that being well-rested is the best way to prepare for one. Most normal people,” he adds as he pokes Sawamura in the forehead. Or what he hopes is his forehead.
“You’re not wearing your glasses,” Sawamura says softly instead of the usual complaint.
It catches Kazuya off guard. “Well maybe if someone wasn’t shouting himself hoarse before sunrise, I would’ve had time to grab my glasses, but.” He gestures flamboyantly at the pitcher.
Kazuya waits for Sawamura to take the bait. He doesn’t. Kazuya tries again.
“You’ve seen me without my glasses loads of times, idiot. During games? Contacts? Remember?” He pulls at his eyelids, as if it’ll help jog Sawamura’s memory.
“Right,” is all he gets. Sawamura starts fidgeting again.
Well, it is still too early. Maybe Bakamura does have limits? He gives up and musses Sawamura’s hair to distract from the stuffy silence. “What did you want so I can go back to bed?”
“I, um. I was just wondering—if you—if before we leave today, we could work on number two.” It’s not really a question.
Kazuya laughs in spite of himself. How was Sawamura so…Sawamura?
“You woke me up to pitch for you.” And he doesn’t phrase it like a question either, because it’s the least surprising thing in the world that Sawamura would do this. That’s what Sawamura does: ask Miyuki Kazuya to catch for him.
This time, Sawamura answers immediately. “Yes.”
“Fine, whatever,” Kazuya acquiesces. He’s too tired to keep up his usual front, and truth be told he’s been anticipating working on Sawamura’s two-seamer, too; it’s been some time since they’ve revisited the basics, and with Sawamura’s repertoire growing what feels like every time Kazuya turns around, he’s aching to see how they can experiment. “Meet me in the bullpen at six. If you’re late, I’m not catching for you for a week.”
“But—!” Ah, finally back to normal.
“See you in a few hours, Bakamura,” Kazuya says as he waves him off, shutting the door in Sawamura’s face, a violent blush still blooming across the pitcher’s cheeks.
5.
“We’ll go through everything like normal, but I want the focus to be on your changeup today,” Kazuya says as he straps into his gear for the start of practice. “Yura Sougou has a lot of righties so it’ll be good to have it at the ready.”
“Yes, captain!” Sawamura clicks his heels together with a salute. The pitcher doesn’t see it with his theatrics, but Kazuya breathes a sigh of relief.
Sawamura has been acting…weird.
Not like weird weird. If anything, he’s been acting normal, and that’s what is weirdest of all. Sawamura used to track Kazuya down in the hallways during class, shouting after him loud enough that one time a girl even dropped her books out of fright. He used to wait outside Kazuya’s homeroom, eyes shining with excitement, just to tell Kazuya about a new grip he’d thought of while dozing off in class. He used to crash Kazuya’s table at dinner in a flurry of exuberance, making sure he’d always beat out Furuya when asking Kazuya to catch for him after practice. He used to always linger after the rest of the team would filter out of Kazuya’s room at night, under the guise that it was somehow his honorful duty as the ace to make sure everyone left at a reasonable hour.
He still does these things, sometimes—but now he does them quietly. Truthfully, it’s the calmest life has felt in the past year and a half, but it’s not the normal Kazuya grew used to. Normal is not Kazuya peering around corners expecting Sawamura to be there. Normal is not Sawamura being the first to leave Kazuya’s room with a quick hand thrown over his shoulder at the rest of the team, without so much as a breath in Kazuya’s direction. Normal is not Kazuya being aware of this new Sawamura-shaped hole in his life. Normal is not Sawamura giving Kazuya space. It’s irritatingly different.
His eyes follow Sawamura now as he walks to the other end of the bullpen, stretching his fingers, his elbows, his traps as he goes. He watches him fall into his own world as he does this: Kazuya can’t hear the words, but he can see the pep talk happening under Sawamura’s breath, can see the knit in his brow that marks the laser-like shift in character. Sure, Sawamura was something of an oaf off the field, but even Kazuya could admit there was something about the pitcher’s focus that was compelling. Alluring, even. (Kazuya is keeping that to himself—the last thing Sawamura needs is an ego boost.)
But most importantly, it feels normal. This Sawamura is familiar. He is loud and he is bright and he is spewing unnecessary encouraging words and archaic phrases at everyone that happens to venture too close to his gravitational pull.
As Sawamura takes his time warming up his muscles (something he’s finally become accustomed to doing on his own without needing to be told to), Kazuya takes inventory of the other pitchers. Nori looks to be in good shape: he’s already thrown a couple pitches. On his far side, Kaneda is in high spirits, limbs loose and raring with energy. Furuya, on the other hand, seems tired, but the second he meets Kazuya’s gaze that changes. The shift in aura makes him look ten centimeters taller. Kazuya grins cheekily at him.
“Miyuki Kazuya!” roars Sawamura from across the bullpen, jerking Kazuya’s attention back to the boy in front of him. It’s grating, but it admittedly feels good, feels right to hear his name tumble out of Sawamura’s mouth. “You’re catching for me!” he declares, eyes piercing as they bore into Kazuya, how they usually get when he’s on the mound, shimmering in a way that would be intimidating if he didn’t know the idiot better.
“And Furuya!” Sawamura sputters, shattering the moment like glass as he jabs a finger at the other boy. “Stop making heart eyes at him!”
Furuya doesn’t react in the slightest and Kazuya finds himself impressed by the pitcher’s ability to tune Sawamura out. It’d be easier to ignore a hurricane. Still, Kazuya can’t help but take the low-hanging fruit; he chuckles behind his mitt, a little anxious to fall back into the normalcy of it all, and calls, “What’s the matter, Bakamura, you jealous?”
Sawamura jolts back to him like he’s been struck by lightning, face burning a vibrant shade of pink. Kazuya waits for the banter, readies himself for the usual game of cat and mouse, but all Sawamura does is clear his throat before going into his windup.
Well. Okay.
Kazuya peers at him closely as he crouches down into position, readies his mitt, and signals for number five. Before the ball has even left Sawamura’s hand, Kazuya knows it’s no good.
“You’re too tense!” he shouts over the din of the bullpen as he tosses the ball back. “Loosen up your shoulders more.”
Sawamura exhales through his nose and nods, kicking his feet in the dirt, rolling his shoulders several times. He closes his eyes, breaking contact with Kazuya, who uses the moment to look more closely at him.
There are purple bags set into his undereyes, and his skin looks a little pallid, sitting somewhat hollow on his face. Easy evidence he hasn’t been sleeping. It annoys Kazuya, because Sawamura should know better. But a small part of his mind is spurred on by anxious curiosity: barring the unusual moments when Sawamura kept his distance, they’ve been working together nearly every night lately—why hadn’t Sawamura mentioned anything?
It takes him a second before he realizes Sawamura is already looking back at him, waiting for the next pitch. Kazuya clears his throat, narrows his eyes at the boy ahead of him, and splays the fingers of his hand wide in a call for a changeup.
Sawamura takes a deep breath; Kazuya can nearly feel it echo in his own lungs from where he’s crouched eighteen meters away. He does look more relaxed this time, countless hours of practice overpowering whatever is gnawing at his nerves today. But Kazuya can tell the grip is still all wrong.
When Sawamura releases the ball, Kazuya throws it back again with a curt, “Again!” At this point, they’re starting to attract the attention of the rest of the bullpen. A bead of sweat thickly carves its way down Kazuya’s neck as he wracks his brain for a solution. He opts for a direct approach, slinging his mask off, dropping it in a pile next to his glove, and heading toward the pitcher. He’s examining his hands when Kazuya approaches him.
“Give it here,” he offers, extending his hands towards Sawamura’s own. Sawamura hesitates for a split second, and Kazuya only notices because he’s so used to reading people, to reading the pitcher before him. “What’s going on with you today?” he asks, grabbing Sawamura’s hand, kneading the meat of his palm.
He waits patiently, waits for Sawamura to move at his own speed instead of forcing him to move with Kazuya’s. When he glances up, he notices Sawamura’s gaze trained on their hands, chapped bottom lip sucked in between his teeth. Something about the sight feels too…private, and Kazuya quickly averts his eyes.
“I couldn’t sleep last night,” is what Sawamura admits after several moments spent listening to the familiar smack of leather on leather reverberating around them.
Kazuya wants to roll his eyes, scoff at the pitcher for stating what’s so glaringly obvious, but he holds his tongue. The bags under Sawamura’s look even deeper from this distance. Instead, he quietly hums in acknowledgement, and continues working his way over each of Sawamura’s knuckles, each of the callouses etched into his palm. They’re rougher than Kazuya’s own, with a couple extra tucked in unexpected places—a testament to just how often Sawamura had a baseball in his hand.
Kazuya takes his time, working his way down each of the long fingers of Sawamura’s left hand. As he moves back up to his wrist, parallel to soft blue veins, he can feel Sawamura’s pulse quicken underneath his ministrations. He doesn’t look up, too focused on his work so they can get back to regularly scheduled practice, doesn’t want to see the pitcher still worrying his lip, but he hears the soft sigh that comes out of Sawamura’s mouth when he hits a particularly tight spot.
He glances up then and finds Sawamura still watching their hands through a half-lidded gaze and Kazuya chokes back a laugh. If not for the erratic pulse still dancing beneath his fingers, Sawamura could’ve been asleep. Okay, so Kazuya is apparently good at hand massages. He files that information away for later (especially when he needs to shut Sawamura up).
Kazuya coughs, breaking Sawamura out of his sleepy haze. When he fully comes to, gaze refocusing on Kazuya, his expression contorts into straight horror. Kazuya pats him on the arm twice like he’s an obedient puppy. “Good morning, sunshine. Can we get back to pitching now?”
Sawamura blinks owlishly at him, gives his hands a quick shake, and nods enthusiastically. “Yes, cap!”
It does get better after that, but overall Sawamura is still spotty. He’s not performing at his full capacity, more like he’s on autopilot, which, admittedly, is fine if he can still get outs, but it gets on Kazuya’s nerves. It’s a risk he’s not willing to take for the team, and it sure as hell is aggravating Sawamura himself at this point, but what annoys Kazuya the most is that he can’t figure out why. Sawamura has been tired at practice plenty of times before, for a myriad of dumb reasons like running with his tire or playing video games with Kuramochi, but he’s always pulled through, spurred on by inextinguishable passion. Even at his lowest, he still had the energy of a small sun.
Halfway through practice, after Sawamura has lost his rhythm for the fourth time today, a shadow comes into Kazuya’s peripheral.
“Miyuki-senpai,” Okumura mutters. “Maybe we should switch.”
Kazuya isn’t sure if Okumura means to ask it like a question or not, and Kazuya isn’t sure what answer to give. He looks at Sawamura who seems just as conflicted, eyes darting between both catchers, lip back between his teeth; he starts pulling at his jersey.
“Why?” It’s not that it’s a bad idea, and it’s great for all of them to work in rotation. But.
“I think you should let me take over for Sawamura-senpai.” This time it’s not a question.
Kazuya stands up, then, looking down at Okumura from his full height. “What,” he laughs a little incredulously, “you think you can fix this? You think I can’t?”
He doesn’t raise his voice, but it’s loud enough: a flip switches in Sawamura. Kazuya immediately regrets it.
“What do you mean, ‘fix this?’ You think I’m some kind of problem, Miyuki Kazuya!”
Wait, that’s not what I—okay, maybe it is technically what he said. “Sawamura, I think you’re getting carried away–”
“Miyuki-senpai,” Okumura tries again.
“I am not getting carried away,” Sawamura reasserts, face turning red, “and I am not the problem. Maybe you’re the problem, Miyuki Kazuya.”
What? He’s always struggled to keep up with Sawamura’s thought patterns outside of baseball, but this is something else entirely. How can he be the problem? He doesn’t even know what is happening here!
“Fine,” Kazuya huffs, standing up. “Since you both want to switch so badly, go ahead.” He doesn’t mean to bump into the underclassman as he pushes past, but he doesn’t apologize either.
Normal Sawamura would have said something at that. This Sawamura does not.
—
Okumura does not come back to the room that night. No one does. And Kazuya—who has now spent a solid hour lying prostrate on his bed, fruitlessly tossing thoughts of the afternoon around in his mind—could not be more thankful.
It’s not easy being captain. He’s gotten better, he’s not dense enough to deny that, but it’s not something for which he was predestined. He’s good at baseball, he’s good at logic, he’s good with numbers. He’s good with Sawamura.
Except for today.
He rolls onto his back, reaching for a spare baseball that found itself nudged in the corner of his blankets after some restless night. As he tosses it lightly in the air, he ruminates on the day.
Sawamura’s pitches, on the whole, had been okay. He was tense, yes, but it came and went in waves. The issue came in finding his rhythm, one of his greatest strengths as a pitcher, and one of the things Kazuya personally prided himself on when it came to their battery. Catching for Sawamura felt like an endless, flowing conversation; he hadn’t realized he’d been taking it for granted until today when the connection faltered.
It’s his job to understand the pitchers, to make them shine. And as captain, it’s his job to not let his emotions get the better of him. Today, he couldn’t do either of those things. The ball misses his hand and thumps onto the floor dramatically. Damn, he can’t even catch anymore either.
Groaning to himself, he slaps a hand over his face.
Okumura had been right. Once he’d slotted in Kazuya’s place, it wasn’t long before Sawamura got his momentum back. And although he did his best to keep his attention on Furuya, Kazuya couldn’t help but let his eyes drift over towards the others occasionally. Soon enough, the pitches came easily, like second nature. And that stirs something ugly within Kazuya’s gut.
Sawamura’s changeup had long been one of Kazuya’s favorite pitches to catch. It was a pitch full of vitality, brimming with unrestrained potential, much like Sawamura himself. Back then, what felt like years ago now, it had marked a turning point in Sawamura’s role as a pitcher, solidified him as a force to be reckoned with. He laughs bitterly now, thinking how much they both owe Coach Ochiai. Or, even more so, Chris.
He couldn’t do anything for Sawamura back then either.
He’s always going to someone for help, whether it’s Tetsu, or Chris, or Okumura, or—
There’s a knock at the door.
Kazuya stays silent, hoping whoever it is takes the hint. He thought he’d made it pretty clear at practice that tonight was not a night for visitors.
“Miyuki-senpai, let me in.”
And oh god, of course it’s Sawamura.
Kazuya waits a moment to see if he leaves, maybe taking no answer to mean that no one is in, but then he remembers that after years of chasing after him, no one knows Kazuya’s schedule better than Sawamura Eijun.
He accepts his fate as he stands up to answer the door. At the very least, Sawamura doesn’t sound angry…
“Hey,” Kazuya starts as he pulls back the handle, shuffling his feet, “I’m s—”
“I’m sorry!”
For a brief second, Kazuya thinks he needs his hearing checked. But no, there is Sawamura right in front of him in all his usual Sawamura glory, eyes earnest, leaning a little too forward into Kazuya’s personal bubble.
“What are you sorry for?” Kazuya asks, genuinely baffled. “I’m sorry.”
Sawamura shakes his head vehemently. “Can I come in?”
Kazuya scoots to the side, making room for him.
Sawamura makes his way into the room naturally, like he has many times before, and heads straight to his usual corner on the floor by Kazuya’s bed, where he bends his knees into his chest and looks up at Kazuya, gaze steady.
On the nights they usually spend together like this, Kazuya tends to sit in his bed above him, but that doesn’t feel right tonight, so he too sits on the ground in front of his bed, knees propped up before him and across from Sawamura.
“Listen, Sawamura,” he begins, and Sawamura does. When it takes Kazuya a moment to find the words, he waits. “I…shouldn’t have said what I said. You aren’t a problem. You have never been one.” He plays with the hem of his shirt like the child he feels like right now, and when he quickly glances at Sawamura, he is looking back at him, eyes wide and sincere, like he’s trying to understand Kazuya’s thoughts straight from his brain so Kazuya doesn’t have to voice them out loud.
He tries anyway. “I don’t really know what I did wrong. I mean, I do, but–” he takes a breath to center himself. “But I do know what I didn’t do right. I’m sorry. For not–for not being able to do the right thing.” Kazuya has never been good with words; he desperately hopes Sawamura’s strange telepathic powers can fill in the gaps here.
And they must work, because Sawamura doesn’t list off the many things Kazuya did do wrong, doesn’t demand a more heartfelt apology. Instead, he scoots a little closer, knees knocking against Kazuya’s own as he tilts into Kazuya’s space.
“I’m sorry my pitches weren’t good today,” he hums, the natural smile that sits softly on his face drooping a little sadly.
Kazuya feels his heart deflate a little at the sight. How ridiculous. “Don’t apologize. I should’ve figured out a way to help.”
Sawamura shakes his head. “I was distracted. I was tired. Even if you were an asshole”—yeah, okay, I deserve that—“that part wasn’t your fault.”
“At least it all worked out in the end, I guess,” Kazuya says, testing the waters, carefully training his eyes on the wall opposite them. “I still managed to see a few of your pitches with Okumura. They looked great.”
He bites back what he really wants to say, things like “I’m the main catcher, not him,” but it’s easier when Sawamura perks back up at the compliment, pulling Kazuya‘s eyes right back to him with magnetic force. Kazuya can practically see the neurons firing in the pitcher’s brain at being praised. It makes him think of how much more he prefers a happy Sawamura to a sad Sawamura, a hurt Sawamura, how a happy Sawamura looks after a perfect pitch, and instead he says, “I wish it was me who could’ve caught them.”
“Really?” Sawamura says, leaning impossibly closer, lips slightly popped open in disbelief, like it’s some alien concept for the first string catcher to be catching the pitches of the team’s ace. Kazuya wants to scoot away, but that would be rude right? He should stay put. When Sawamura blinks at him, eyes big and searching, like he needs to be sure he’s hearing this right, Kazuya nods.
“Oh,” Sawamura’s voice sings as he stretches out of the ball he’d curled into, limbs long and lean, joints cracking as he arches against the side of Kazuya’s bed, “how great it is to finally be given the proper respect I deserve as the ace from my dear, dear catcher.”
It’s only when Sawamura stretches away that Kazuya notices he’d leaned in too. He straightens back up and pinches Sawamura in the side where his shirt has ridden up a little. “Don’t push your luck, Ace-sama.”
Sawamura flinches at the contact, body contracting in on itself for a second, before he shoots Kazuya a huge grin. “You know, maybe you’re okay, Miyuki Kazuya.”
“Wow, His Royal Highness says I’m okay,” Kazuya deadpans. “I’m honored.”
Sawamura giggles, and Kazuya does something similar that probably doesn’t really count as a giggle, but it’s close enough. The silence they drift off into is somewhat uncomfortable, so Kazuya starts wracking his brain for a random topic. Right when he settles on the weather, Sawamura breaks it instead. “It must be hard to be captain. To worry about others like that.”
“What?” is Kazuya’s dumb reply.
Sawamura has his head thrown back on Kazuya’s bed now, eyes skimming over the patterns in the woodwork of the bunk above. “I know it’s not easy for you. I don’t think it would be easy for anyone. I don’t think it could be.” His fingers find the baseball on the floor from earlier, and he begins to toss it above his head just like Kazuya had. “But you’re actually very considerate, even when you mess up like you did today, jerk. If you weren’t, I don’t think we’d be sitting here right now having this conversation.”
Kazuya doesn’t know what to say to that, and something tells him Sawamura isn’t looking for an answer. He leans his head back on the bed too, mirroring the pitcher, watching as the ball leaves the tips of his fingers with practiced ease before softly making contact again each time. He thinks of the rough calluses between them, and how they must feel against the leather and if it was anything like how they felt against his own. He turns his head only slightly, the coarse fibers of the dorm-provided sheets just grazing his cheek. Sawamura isn’t looking at him this time, eyes instead bobbing up and down with the ball in his hand, so Kazuya looks. His face is relaxed, a slight tilt to the corners of his lips and the lightest dusting of a blush along the bridge of his nose; a far cry from this afternoon, but the bags under his eyes still paint a stain on the peaceful planes of Sawamura’s face. After a moment—this time the silence is not uncomfortable—Kazuya steels himself and says, “You clearly have stuff on your mind…Do you wanna talk about it…?”
It’s not in his nature to ask something like this, just like it’s not in his nature to be captain. But after these last few years, it is in Kazuya’s nature to run alongside Sawamura Eijun. So he tries.
Sawamura tosses the ball twice more before catching it tightly in his hand and turning his head to the right to face Kazuya head on, the corners of his smile melting into something softer. “Maybe later.”
And maybe this isn’t quite normal either, but it’ll do for tonight.