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The sun hasn’t even risen properly.
The cool air kept everyone inside, and for once there wasn’t a single player out trying to squeeze in independent practice.
Somewhere outside, a bird chirps exactly once before deciding it's too damn early.
BANG BANG BANG.
The door rattles in its frame like it’s about to fall off its hinges.
Kazuya, dead to the world in his blanket burrito, groans, his sleep mask slightly askew.
“What the fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse, reaching blindly for his phone.
It’s 5:32 AM.
A crime.
Then the door creaks open— because bless Miyuki and his heart, giving away spare keys like it was a good idea— and Sawamura Eijun stands there backlit by the dawn, already grinning ear to ear, literal caffeine in human form.
Fully dressed.
Overly chipper.
And wheeling in a small duffel bag with two bento boxes sticking out of the top.
“Miyuki Kazuya!” Eijun beams, loud enough to echo off the walls. “The train leaves in 30 minutes!”
Kazuya lifts his sleep mask just enough to squint at the intrusion. “What do you mean, train?” he croaks.
“To Nagano!” Eijun bounces in place. “You’re coming home with me for break. Mochi-senpai said you were gonna rot in the dorms all alone and that’s unacceptable. So choo choo!”
Kuamochi the fucking traitor.
Kazuya groans and burrows deeper into his comforter. “You woke me up before 6. You broke into my room. You made train noises–”
“And I brought breakfast!” Eijun says, waving the bento boxes like a peace treaty.
“…I hate you.”
“No you don’t,” Eijun grins. “You’re just not fully awake yet.”
Kazuya sighs, rubbing his face with both hands, but under his breath, he mutters, “You better have packed my hoodie.”
“I packed your whole damn closet, Kazuya,” Eijun chirps, already rooting through Miyuki’s drawers to grab socks.
And even though Kazuya grumbles the whole way through brushing his teeth and stuffing clothes into a bag, there’s the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Damn him.
No one’s ever stormed into his life and demanded to take him home before.
Thirty minutes later they settled into their train seats and Eijun fast asleep beside him already, mouth parted slightly, headphones askew, head lolling dangerously toward Kazuya’s shoulder.
Kazuya opens his messages.
Miyuki: What the actual fuck, Kuramochi.
Miyuki: He kicked down my door. He raided my closet. He dragged me off the bed
Miyuki: And now I’m on a train to Nagano. What the hell.
Kuramochi, the devil: Sounds romantic.
Kuramochi: *Kissy emoji. Kissy emoji. Heart. Heart. Heart. Sparkles. Champagne bottle. Good luck with the in-laws!
Kazuya slams his head back against the headrest with the kind of restraint that only just keeps him from throwing his phone out the train window. He types again.
Miyuki: No, but seriously
Kuramochi: Relaaaaaax his moms probably just gonna make you shovel snow
Kazuya lets out a strangled noise that startles a nearby elderly couple.
He flashes them with an apologetic smile.
And next to him, Eijun mumbles in his sleep and leans his whole weight against Kazuya’s side with a soft exhale.
Kazuya glares down at him.
“…I’m going to kill him,” he mutters. But his hand still rises—slow, cautious, traitorous—to gently fix Eijun’s headphones so they don’t fall off.
He doesn’t move Eijun off.
Eijun, practically vibrates with excitement, when they make the turn. “Come on! I told them we’d be home by lunch!”
Kazuya squints toward what looks like a private road that leads up a slight slope. He opens his mouth to ask something—anything—and then—
He sees it.
A sprawling piece of land. Fields sectioned with elegant precision, multiple greenhouses, well-maintained gravel paths, and in the distance—a huge, beautiful traditional Japanese farmhouse that looks like it belongs on a Ghibli background art board.
Kazuya actually stops walking. “...Eijun.”
“Huh?”
“You said your family were farmers” Kazuya hisses.
“Yeah?” Eijun blinks at him innocently.
“You made it sound like—small scale. Like watering tomato plants and chasing ducks away with a broom!”
Eijun scratches his cheek. “We do chase the ducks away, sometimes. But, like… my great-grandpa started everything. Now we export produce too.”
Kazuya just stares at him.
“This is—elite farmer behavior, what the fuck” he says, scandalized. “You’re rich.”
Eijun turns bright red, starts shaking Kazuya like a ragdoll “No we’re not! We’re just successful!”
“I’ve seen department stores smaller than your front yard.”
They walk up to the house—wooden, warm, elegant in that way only homes that have stood for generations are. The scent of rice cooking and something fried greets them before the door even opens.
And then it does open.
The inside of the Sawamura home is insanely warm. Not just from the fireplace and the food already laid out on the low dining table, but from the volume.
There are at least five voices speaking all at once.
Theres an uncle cackling by the window with a cigarette,
A cousin yelling “JANKENPON!” while slapping someone’s hand,
A grandparent calling for more tea like a general commanding a battalion,
And someone loudly tuning a shamisen in the living room.
Kazuya hasn’t even taken his shoes off yet and he’s overstimulated.
Eijun turns around, grinning nervously, whispering, “Sorry, sorry, they’re always like this—my cousin’s family is visiting too so like—”
Kazuya just… stands there.
Still.
Eyes wide.
Taking in because— sue him, Kazuya’s an only child, and he sees his dad at least three times at best.
And they live in the same house.
The laughter, the banter, the closeness—it’s overwhelming.
He feels it deep in his chest, an ache he didn’t know he was holding.
Kazuya barely registers Eijun calling out, “Oi! Grandma! I brought Miyuki!”
Record-scratch.
Every single head turns.
All eyes on him.
And then— a cheer erupts.
“Welcome!”
“How lovely, Eijun’s friend!”
“Look at him! He’s got looks!”
“EIJUN YOU NEVER SAID HE HAD SUCH NICE HAIR—”
“Come sit, sit! Don’t be shy!”
Eijun squawks beside him, subject to a lot of hair ruffles, cheek pinches, and shoulder grasping.
Kazuya coughs into his fist, flicking his hair. “Well, I try to keep it shiny for the fans.”
An Aunt laughs so hard she snorts. “Oh he’s got jokes!”
Just then, Eijun’s mom walks in, wiping her hands on her apron. Her presence calms the chaos slightly—but only slightly.
She walks up to Kazuya, looks him up and down with amusement dancing in her eyes, and then says:
“Oh, honey, please. Don’t worry about the courtesy. I’ve been hearing about your shitty personality from Eijun for months now. I’d actually like to see it for myself.”
Eijun chokes on his rice cracker. “MOM—”
A laugh actually rips out of Kazukya “That’s fair,” he manages to say between wheezes.
Eijun’s mom just winks. “You’ve got five seconds to make yourself useful and help me with the mochi or I’ll assume the personality rumors are true.”
And Kazuya, with a grin that’s more genuine than he’s worn in weeks, says, “Point me to the rice, Ma’am”
That's how Kazuya finds himself in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, working beside Eijun’s mom, who watches him like a hawk.
And to everyone’s shock and awe—
Kazuya isn’t just competent,
He’s efficient,
Precise
Clean.
He handles knives like he was born holding one.
Slices daikon paper-thin,
Preps fish like a pro,
And even helps with plating, arranging pickled vegetables in an aesthetic swirl that looks straight out of a food magazine.
Eijun’s mom actually clutches her chest.
“Holy shit,” she mutters. “I thought Eijun was exaggerating.”
Kazuya smirks without looking up. “Eijun exaggerates everything.”
From the other room, Eijun yells, “OI—”
She’s glowing.
Beaming.
“He cooks, he cleans, he’s sarcastic… perfect housewife material.”
Miyuki deadpans, “Please don’t tell your son that. His ego’s already too big.”
She laughs.
Hard.
Later, after lunch, when everyone is full and happy and sprawled out like cats in the sun— well whatever sun there was in the freezing Nagano mountains in December— Kazuya sits beside Eijun’s tiny, wrinkled, terrifyingly perceptive grandmother, who was sipping tea like she knows every secret in the universe.
She pats his hand gently, and he turns—
and there it is.
Her soft, trembling voice “You have such sad eyes.”
Kazuya blinks. “Sorry?”
“I hope my grandson treats you well.”
Kazuya forgets how to breathe for a second.
He stares at her, then glances wildly around the room like someone set off a psychic bomb.
Eijun’s still across the room, telling a story about a frog or something dumb.
Totally oblivious.
And Miyuki just—what the fuck.
He laughs nervously, scratching the back of his head. “He… he tries?”
Grandma Sawamura squints at him. “He better.”
Kazuya just sips his tea like it’s vodka.
Ma’am—
Ma’am, I'm a catcher.
not a patient in a psychic facility.
I did not come here to be dismantled emotionally on sight.
Dinner is just as loud.
Too loud.
Eijun’s uncles are drinking beer and laughing,
His cousins are poking fun at him like it’s a national sport
And is seated at the head of the table, wine glass in hand, just gleaming with pride and pure chaos.
“Eijun,” she starts sweetly,
The boy in question, instantly tenses.
“Do you remember when you sobbed in the kitchen and said you didn’t want to go to Tokyo because it was ‘full of private school snobs’?”
Someone snorts a laugh so hard they start choking.
The Aunties are cackling.
“MOM PLEASE—”
“No no no, let me finish,” she grins. “And then! Because everyone remembers— this boy goes to Seidou’s open house and comes back doing this whole rant about ‘this guy, Miyuki Kazuya, who caught the ball like it was magic.’”
“STOP– NO KAZUYA STOP LAUGHING”
“Oh no, I’m not laughing” Kazuya says, trying to sip miso soup calmly, absolutely flushed, biting the inside of his cheek so hard not to grin. “But I’m not magic either, I'll tell you that”
Eijun screeches.
“Then suddenly,” his mom goes on, eyes glinting with evil, “he’s packing his bags. Tokyo’s not so bad, maybe it’s okay, maybe he’ll give it a try. We thought it was maturity”
“He wouldn’t shut up,” one of the aunts says while passing the hot pot. “I thought this ‘Miyuki Kazuya’ was a baseball move.”
“Right?! I was like—is that a pitch type?” another uncle chimes in.
“He sat at this very table,” his mom grins, “and said, ‘if I don’t go, I’ll never know if I can throw a pitch he wants to catch.’”
Collective awwing, teasing, and spoon-throwing commence.
Fuck.
Now Kazuya is turning red.
Kuramochi would be sobbing laughing if he were here.
He really would.
That bastard.
“Oh my god,” Eijun groans, slumping forward into the table, “I hate all of you.”
Grandma Sawamura hums thoughtfully. “It’s romantic” she says, “You brought your boy home. That’s what matters.”
“GRANDMA—”
And Kazuya, despite himself, because he’s a little shit goes “Well, mission accomplished then”
“KAZUYA FUCK OFF”
It starts when Kazuya rolls over at 2:17 AM and realizes his blanket’s betrayed him.
The house is quiet, filled with that peaceful rural stillness
Except Kazuya’s teeth are chattering because what the hell kind of mountain air is this and why does this futon feel like it was blessed by the Ice Age gods.
Meanwhile, three feet away, Eijun is curled up like a sunbeam given human form, radiating heat and safety and sleep sounds that are criminally endearing.
Kazuya stares at the ceiling for exactly thirty seconds before muttering, “I hate myself,” and crawling into Eijun’s futon like a sinner sneaking into church.
Eijun stirs a little, sleep-warm and mumbling something incoherent, but doesn’t wake.
Kazuya doesn’t say anything either.
He just… nestles in.
Nose pressed to the curve of Eijun’s throat.
Legs tangling.
One arm slung over Eijun’s chest because fuck it, we’re already here.
And the warmth hits him like a drug.
He melts.
He sighs.
He’s out cold.
The next morning, in the kitchen over rice and grilled fish, Eijun’s mom asks brightly, “Did you sleep well, Kazuya?”
Kazuya, still blinking sleep from his eyes and hair a mess, yawns and mumbles, “Yeah… I was warm.”
Without missing a beat, she hums, “Of course. Our Eijun’s always been a little furnace.”
Kazuya chokes on his tea.
The grandma, never looking up from her miso soup, just adds, “Good. He always needed someone to keep warm.”
And Eijun looks across the table, red to his ears.
And Kazuya?
Stupid happy.
And maybe—just maybe—a little warm.
What the fuck is this.
And because Kazuya couldn’t process affection like a normal person, he inevitably ends up calling Kuramochi.
It was late enough for the house noise to start dying downstairs.
The stars were out,
Crickets chirping,
Heater humming low.
Eijun had just come back from putting away the kotatsu blankets when he hears the sliding door to the hallway creak open.
He pauses.
There’s the sound of pacing.
Uneven steps.
The stressed-out kind.
And then:
“Kuramochi what the absolute fuck is this family shit—”
Eijun freezes, halfway in the shadows.
“—They keep feeding me and giving me sad pats!”
Eijun snorts.
Kazuya’s voice is raw.
Half-muffled, half-hysterical.
Like a man who’s just walked into a cult that only believes in acts of service and emotional safety.
“I had seven side dishes, Mochi. SEVEN. And his grandma said I ‘look like I need taking care of.’ WHAT DOES THAT MEAN.”
Then, from Kazuya’s phone—a cackle.
A loud, unrepentant, unfiltered wheeze of a laugh.
So loud Eijun hears it echo from the hallway wall without the call being on speaker.
“Kuramochi I’m being love-bombed by an agricultural powerhouse” Miyuki hisses, fist in his hair, glasses sliding down his nose.
Desperate.
“I don't know how to handle this, I haven’t had this much affection since— actually scratch that, I’ve never had this much affection”
Eijun, still unnoticed, is trying so hard not to laugh.
He’s literally got a hand over his mouth.
His whole chest is shaking.
“She told me I had ‘sad eyes’” Miyuki replies to the call, flailing. “UNRPOVED, MIND YOU”
And just then—he turns.
And sees Eijun standing there.
Wide-eyed.
Busted.
Kazuya goes still.
Eijun tilts his head, smug, trying not to laugh. “Sad eyes, huh?”
Miyuki hangs up mid-call.
“Don’t.”
Sawamura just grins. “So… agricultural powerhouse?”
“Don’t.”
“I give great compliments, actually.”
Kazuya lunges for him.
Kazuya expected a quiet winter break.
A little rural air, some hot food, cuddling in the futon with his personal space heater slash boyfriend.
What he didn’t expect was Eijun dragging him across the entire town like a one-man parade float.
“Come on, they’ll close early today!” Eijun yells, yanking him by the wrist.
“Why am I here?” Kazuya mutters, breath fogging in the air, sleep mask still imprinted on his forehead.
“To charm the old ladies, obviously.”
And charm the old ladies he does.
But not before they all give him an entire diagnostic of Eijun’s life from kindergarten to present.
At the tofu shop, Oba-chan pinches Kazuya’s cheek and goes,
“You’re the catcher?! The one who sends him food in bento boxes? My, my. You’ve got strong arms. Good for raising chickens.”
At the post office, the clerk looks him dead in the eye and says,
“You better not break Eijun’s heart, son. That boy cried for a week when his goldfish died.”
At the vegetable market, the owner casually throws in an extra bunch of scallions and says,
“For your boyfriend! That arm of his is keeping my grandson inspired to stay in baseball.”
Kazuya is dying.
Dear god.
“Why do they all know who I am?!”
Eijun, completely unfazed, shrugs. “I talk about you.”
“To what extent?!”
“Yeah, I mean—you’re my catcher. And also my, you know.” He waves vaguely, blush creeping up his cheeks. “Catcher.”
“That’s not—okay, that’s not even a euphemism.”
“OI”
Kazuya spends the rest of the afternoon grumbling, glasses sliding down his nose as he’s offered freshly steamed mochi, pickled radishes, a hand-knit scarf, and unsolicited marriage advice.
At one point he whispers to Eijun, “Your town is terrifying.”
Sawamura just beams. “They think you’re really nice!”
“I’m overstimulated”
“No, you’re just emotionally repressed Miyuki Kazuya”
“I hate you.”
“No, you love me actually.”
Kazuya raises an unimpressed brow at him.
Eijun only grins.
And god, its so soft.
Kazuya wishes he could stay here forever.
“Don’t worry Kazuya, I’ll bring you here every year”
Kazuya blinks
“You said that last part out loud” Eijun’s eyes are so god damn soft.
He’s the sun.
That's what Eijun is.
Kazuya laughs.
Warm.
Kazuya’s warm.