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Kazuya hates when it rains.
When it came to baseball, there was nothing good about rain: it meant soggy cleats, clumping dirt, wild pitches. Today, for Kazuya, it means sopping wet notes on his team’s upcoming opponent.
His destination was not far from his university and for that reason, he’d chosen to forego an umbrella when he left home. Now, with the rain beating mercilessly upon his back and, even worse, his notebook, he finds there are not words crass enough in the Japanese language to adequately curse his stupidity.
Drops splatter wildly across his glasses and force him to squint through the downpour as he dashes across the intersection. An impatient horn blares through the angry hum of the rain and Kazuya hears some girl wince like a puppy as he sprints past, unintentionally dousing her tights in dirty rainwater. A typical afternoon in Ebisu. Only a few feet away, sanctuary awaits him in the form of his favorite coffee shop, promising dry lenses and the bitter warmth of black coffee that tastes something like home.
A sigh of relief is already escaping his lips before he’s even completely inside. One beat later, he inhales and the strong scent of Arabica rushes his senses, leaves him as hazy as the outside rainy afternoon. The bell just above his head dings softly in hello as the door shuts behind him.
Only now that he’s inside the dry warmth of Sarutahiko Coffee does he notice—and even worse, hear—the sloshing of his soaked socks as he trudges to the counter. The café is filled with the gentle raucousness common to every coffee shop Kazuya has ever visited, but even so, he finds himself conscious of the squishing of his footsteps. Clutching his dripping wet notebook tightly in one hand, he musses his equally wet bangs with his other until he’s certain he blends into the atmosphere as much as possible. Kazuya would never refer to himself as shy, per say, but there was little he preferred less than unnecessary socialization. It was for this reason that this coffee shop was his favorite—everyone kept to themselves here, including the staff. This was the type of place where people who wanted to be by themselves gathered. A place where you could be alone without being lonely.
As was habit from visiting so often, he hardly bothers to look up as he digs his fingers to the bottom of his wallet for spare change and says, “I’ll have a large black coffee.”
He knows what the barista will say, what they all say: That’ll be ¥460. And his hand is already extended with the appropriate amount of money as he stuffs his wallet back into the back pocket of his damp jeans.
“Aren’t you going to at least say please?” a jarring voice interrupts.
Kazuya cringes at the sound; it’s a sharp contrast to the busy-yet-drowsy ambience of the café, like a gunshot cutting through soft static. He wheels around to look for the source but no one else is in line with him. Then he looks, finally, straight ahead.
An unfamiliar boy with hair even messier than Kazuya’s own is behind the register today. He looks younger, with bright eyes that haven’t seen enough of the world and lips that probably haven’t tasted nearly enough coffee to warrant working in a Tokyo café. Even his nametag looks out of place here, the bright block letters screaming Eijun against the small black rectangle pinned to his chest. It’s all just a little too much in this tiny, cramped room in this large, cramped city, Kazuya thinks.
“I said, are you going to at least say please?”
It takes Kazuya a moment to realize that it’s this boy, this barista that doesn’t belong behind the counter, who had so loudly thrown a wrench in his reclusive routine. And it takes him a moment longer to realize the boy is glaring at him, but it’s not until the boy is snatching the money from his hand that Kazuya thinks to reply.
Kazuya blinks once and murmurs a quick, “Ah, sorry,” before his hand finds its way back to his bangs and ruffles them further in front of his eyes. The barista, Eijun, says nothing more, and Kazuya is sure he’s still glaring at him but he doesn’t feel like looking. Instead, he shoves his fingers inside the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the most embarrassingly small amount of change anyone has probably had the indecency to bring to this café, sets it on the counter, and pushes it towards the boy. Best not to make enemies with those in charge of making your drinks, he decides. And so he chances a glance at Eijun then and offers the warmest smile he can manage because Kazuya always has to have the upper hand. “Please. And thanks.”
Eijun’s face scrunches up, causing him to appear even younger than he probably already is and Kazuya’s smile doesn’t fade as he slogs away to find a table; if anything, his grin widens when a perturbed, “I’ll bring your order out to you, sir,” is shouted in his wake. This is nothing compared to the chuckle that claws up from his throat when he hears another man say, “You can’t talk that kind of shit to customers, Bakamura!”
Much to his relief, the only available table is safely tucked away in the corner farthest from the counter. The chair clunks dully against the floor as he pulls it out and it only serves to make the wet slap! of his notebook hitting the table that much more disappointing. Kazuya watches it like it’s some bloodthirsty predator, contemplates how much of the ink inside has run, how many of the pages are now stuck together like glue. He sighs and does his best to pry open the drenched cover—the upcoming baseball game wasn’t going to win itself.
Reaching into his (thankfully dry) coat pocket, he digs out his phone and places it on the table, safely away from his still miserably wet notes, and plugs in his earphones. Watanabe, one of his teammates (whom Kazuya would argue was a literal gift from God), had been able to record bits of the opponent’s last game and had sent them to Kazuya earlier that morning. As the tiny screen lights up to reveal a baseball diamond, Kazuya turns up the volume all way.
For as long as he can remember, Kazuya has always listened to things too loud: music, movies, anything with adjustable volume. Deep down, he’s pretty sure this is why he’s started to lose some of his hearing at the ripe old age of twenty-one, though he prefers to tell anyone who asks that it’s from hearing the metallic smack of leather against bat way too many times in way too close proximity.
Amidst a loud cheer from the crowd on his phone (that might have been cringe-inducing to the average person), the slender frame of the opponent’s leadoff walks up to the plate. Kazuya quickly picks his phone up off the table, gets tangled in the wires of his headphones for a split second, and squints at the screen: he was a firm believer that you could predict the caliber of a team based on just their leadoff alone. The boy at the plate is a lefty, and he stands with his back hunched. The calm look on his face is deceiving, Kazuya notes; it’s a minute detail, hardly noticeable to the untrained eye, but the batter’s fingers are flexing over and over on the hilt of the bat as he lazily swings it back and forth in front of his feet. With only a second spent analyzing, Kazuya can already tell that this player’s specialty is faking out the opponent. The pitcher on the other team nods towards the catcher, winds up, Kazuya holds his breath and—
A sharp rap on his shoulder jerks Kazuya out of his daze so suddenly that he gasps. His phone tumbles out of his hands, landing with a sad plop on top of his wet notebook. Next to him, Eijun lets out a sharp cry and stumbles backwards, Kazuya’s coffee swirling precariously inside the mug in his hands.
“What’d you do that for?” Kazuya acuses, a little more startled than he wants to sound, as he yanks out both earphones with one hand.
“I’m literally doing my job! Why did you jump?” the boy shouts back.
“I couldn’t hear you,” Kazuya explains, his patience wearing thin. “And besides, people don’t usually go around just grabbing other people’s shoulders in coffee shops, do they?”
“I resent that!” Eijun yelps.
A couple of heads have turned in their direction and even though Kazuya would rather a giant hole open up and swallow him into the ground than continue this conversation, he has no control over his sarcastic remarks at this point. “Do you always talk to customers li—”
“You’re watching baseball?”
In an instant, every crease had smoothed over on Eijun’s face, leaving only an air of wonder behind, the kind that makes you a little breathless. His eyes are wide as the saucer still carefully balanced in his hands (and also the same color as the bit of coffee that had pooled around the mug). Childlike.
Eijun blinks once and Kazuya realizes he’s waiting for an answer. “Oh, um, yeah. It’s baseball.”
“I know that!” Eijun shouts, but this time without an edge to his words. “Why?”
“Well, it’s a pretty popular sport here in Japan, you see—”
“No, no, no,” he interrupts, waving his hand as he brushes Kazuya’s words aside. Then he points to the puddle of a notebook. “I see your notes.” And Kazuya is taken aback for a moment but the boy’s next words and the smile that accompanies them changes that: “You play.”
It’s not a question. Kazuya nods.
“What position?” Eijun demands, setting the cup of coffee on the table like an afterthought and eagerly plopping down in the chair opposite Kazuya.
“Catcher.” And that’s all Kazuya says, likes the way it hangs reverently in the heavy air of the café.
Against the laws of physics, Eijun’s eyes grow impossibly wider. Kazuya waits for the next question, the compliment, or maybe even an insult, but instead:
“I’m a pitcher.”
Kazuya studies him—a habit he can’t break. He notices the long, tanned forearms peeking out under edges of coffee-stained sleeves, sees the way the fabric strains against taut muscle. Spots the chains of rough calluses wedged unforgivably across his palm, watches the way his fingers are wriggling together. Sighs at the cracked nail on his left index finger because clearly this kid had no idea how to properly care for his hands. A southpaw.
It takes him the length of a breath to piece together every bit of this puzzle he hadn’t needed to solve in the first place and when his eyes focus back on Eijun’s, he sees how the boy is leaning forward like a little kid sitting too close to the television, completely unaware of his mother’s scolds. There’s a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
Kazuya inevitably cracks.
“Hahaha! You, a pitcher? With balance like that?” he howls as he gestures wildly to the mug in front of him that contained less coffee inside than outside of it. The marvel on Eijun’s face disappears instantaneously and he bristles.
“Yes, I’m a pitcher! The best pitcher! In all of Japan!”
Kazuya rests his chin in the palm of his hand and raises an eyebrow.
“Okay, maybe not Japan! But definitely Tokyo!”
“Then how come I’ve never heard of you?”
“How come I’ve never heard of you?"
Kazuya thrusts out his hand. “Miyuki Kazuya, starting catcher, Hosei University.”
Eijun’s expression goes blank before his cheeks burn a bright red. Kazuya almost jumps again when the boy’s hand finally shoots out and clamps his with a vice-like grip. No wonder his nail is cracked—he holds the ball too tightly. “Sawamura Eijun, reserve pitcher, Waseda University,” he declares brusquely. “I’m a second year.”
Waseda…?
Kazuya’s reply is on the tip of his tongue, although he’s not really sure if it’s going to be a compliment or an insult, but he’s hoping it’s the latter. Luckily, he doesn’t get the chance to speak.
“Oi! Sawamura!” a voice bellows. A young man with a tense jaw and sharp lines to every part of his face, whom Kazuya has seen behind the counter more often than not, was scowling at them. “I don’t pay you to make friends, I pay you to make coffee! Get back to work!”
If it hadn’t been for the man’s mullet, Kazuya might have actually been intimidated; instead, he laughs heartily. In stark contrast, Eijun’s face had gone bone white. He scampers out of the seat, knocking into the table (Kazuya’s mug rattles dangerously), before turning and bowing deeply.
“Enjoy your coffee, Miyuki-san!” Then he runs away.
Kazuya watches after him for a moment—he particularly gets a kick out of it when Eijun literally tiptoes around his mullet-clad coworker—before looking back down at his coffee…or what was left of it.
There were many things he could do at that point: complain, demand a refund or a free fresh cup, leave. But instead, he puts his earphones back in, presses the play button on his phone, picks up the mug, and drinks what’s left of the coffee through upturned lips.
It’s a bright and considerably warmer Tuesday morning, two days later, when Kazuya’s class is let out early. Tuesdays had been his favorite day of the week since the start of the semester, as the only class he has is a two-hour 8:00 a.m. psychology lecture. Sure, even after weeks of the same routine, it’s rough waking up every morning (no amount of money or coffee could bribe him into being an early-riser), but the luxury of an entirely free afternoon is a more than worthwhile tradeoff. Even more importantly, this leaves time for afternoon naps before evening practice and there is very little Kazuya likes more than sleep; in fact, the only thing he can think of that takes precedence is baseball.
Ever since he could remember, Kazuya had always preferred sitting in the back row and so when the professor dismisses them, he’s the first one out the door. He slides into the hall, his every thought intent on the almost lover-like warmth of his bed back at home, but when he ducks out of the front doors of the psychology building, the brilliance of the sun causes him to entirely forget his always-present fatigue. He stands motionless on the stone steps for a moment, hand shielding his eyes from the onslaught of the bright spring day as the barrage of students filters around him, before concluding that it’s a waste of the nice weather to go home. Before he’s even decided on his destination, his feet have already started moving of their own accord. Fifteen minutes later, when he finally gathers his surroundings enough to realize he’s heading downtown, he’s content; Sarutahiko is closer than his apartment anyways.
The usual tiny ding resonates as he eases through the door of the coffee shop and Kazuya can’t help but think of how miserable of a day it had been when he visited last. Maybe it’s the sunshine or maybe it’s the fact that his belongings aren’t soaked to the core, but today he doesn’t dip his head as he goes straight to the counter, and he’s not surprised one bit at who’s behind the register.
“Ah! Catcher-san!” Eijun greets exuberantly.
Miyuki bows reverentially, his nose nearly touching the large tip jar. “Japan’s-Greatest-Pitcher-sama.”
He doesn’t straighten up in time to see Eijun’s resulting face, but if the tch! he lets loose is any indication, Kazuya is sure he wouldn’t have been disappointed.
“What’ll it be today?” Eijun begins. “How about a—”
Kazuya shakes his head and waves a hand. “Just black coffee.” He doesn’t miss the way Eijun’s nose crinkles in disapproval.
“Okay, just plain black coffee,” he drawls, poison seeping into the spaces between his words. “That’ll be 4—”
Kazuya already has his hand extended, the exact amount needed in his palm. Eijun rolls his eyes but surprisingly makes no remark as he takes the money and then leaves to pour the drink. Not even bothering to hide the smile on his face, Kazuya watches as Eijun proceeds to trip over his coworker’s foot, causing him to stumble face-first towards the line of coffee pots. Despite his arms flailing wildly, he manages to catch his balance right before impact and Kazuya can’t even try to pretend that the boy’s quick reflexes do not amaze him. Probably good at pickoffs. When Eijun makes his way back to the register, it’s with a deeply flushed face.
“Here you go.” He offers the mug.
“At least you tripped before you poured my coffee this time,” Kazuya teases with a smirk. He takes a sip as Eijun’s mouth turns down in a grimace. “Thanks,” he says and he raises the mug in the boy’s direction.
As he turns around to find a table, a sharp voice snaps, “Sawamura-kun! Can you please watch where you’re going for once in your life?”
“I know! I know!” is the only response and Kazuya can only imagine this exact scenario has played out too often to count (and although he’s never been one for religion, he prays for the sake of the owner that the café has good insurance).
He chuckles into his coffee and almost chokes.
It’s substantially less busy today than during Kazuya’s last visit (he chalks that up to the still-early hour) and he’s able to snag a table right up against the window that lines the sidewalk. For a while, he alternates between sipping his coffee and absently staring at the passerby outside. While he had a meeting tonight with the coach to go over tactics for the upcoming game, Kazuya just didn’t feel like reviewing batting averages and pitching arsenals for the umpteenth time that week. And even though the sun and warm weather had chased away any of his usual desire to hibernate in his room, his mind was still hazy.
“No baseball today?”
Kazuya turns his head so fast that his neck pulls, causing him to wince. Eijun is there, of course, his wide eyes first fixated on the empty table and then Kazuya’s own.
“Not today,” he answers. “Didn’t feel like it.”
Eijun nods as he pulls out the chair on the other side of the table and sits down.
“Don’t you have work to do?” Kazuya asks with feigned annoyance.
Eijun shakes his head animatedly, which only serves to mess up his hair even more. “Takako-senpai said I could take a break!”
Kazuya hums in response and then goes back to staring out the window. It’s not that he doesn’t want Eijun’s company; it’s not that at all, really. But when it comes down to it, Kazuya is not a morning person and he simply does not yet have enough energy to handle someone who so obviously is.
But surprisingly, Eijun does not pester him. Instead, the conversation moves slowly, at a pace that’s actually appropriate for ten in the morning, and without realizing it, Kazuya somehow ends up doing most of the talking.
“So what are you studying in school?” Eijun asks about five minutes in. Kazuya finds himself idly wondering how long the standard break for a barista is.
“I haven’t decided yet,” he says cautiously. He knows all too well the reaction this usually brings and hesitates to continue, but then, “I’m there on a baseball scholarship.”
Eijun’s face scrunches up in the way that Kazuya decides is characteristic of him. “Why didn’t you just go pro?”
And he debates answering honestly, he really does. He thinks about all of the offers he received in the latter half of his senior year of high school. Thinks about the long talks he had with Chris-senpai and Rei-chan. Thinks about his mother. But then the rational side of Kazuya wins out, reasoning that he’s already been out of character enough for today what with openly socializing before noon.
He shrugs. “Just felt like doing something else, I guess.”
“You must not be that good of a catcher, then,” Eijun scoffs, the threat of challenge obvious in his set brow.
That piques Kazuya’s interest, and more importantly, his pride. He leans forward and all but purrs, “Let’s just put it this way: I’m as good of a catcher as you are bad of a barista.”
If past experience is any indicator, Kazuya expects this to get Eijun riled up, so when the other boy visibly bristles, he’s satisfied to find that he’s right. But what he doesn’t expect is for Eijun to lean in just as closely, near enough to make Kazuya conscious of his coffee-breath.
“Well, I’m as good of a pitcher as you are terrible of a conversationalist.”
They stare at each other, probably for much longer than is socially acceptable in a tiny café on a Tuesday morning, until Kazuya throws his head back in laughter.
“What?” Eijun barks but Kazuya can’t contain his cackling.
“Sawamura-kun! Break’s over!” a woman with long black hair piled on top of her head calls from behind the pastry display. By conventional means, she’s very pretty. And it’s faint, but Kazuya does not miss the blush that dusts the apples of Eijun’s cheeks.
So fast that he bumps into the table, Eijun shoots up and juts a finger accusingly at Kazuya. “I’ll deal with you later.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Kazuya says with a languid wave. “Bye, Sawamura-kun~”
“Do you ever order anything other than black coffee?”
The question forcibly pulls Kazuya’s attention back to the boy in front of him. He’d been scribbling in his notebook for the last five minutes or so and somewhere along the way had forgotten that Eijun—whom had already finished his shift for the night—was sitting across from him. After a week spent reviewing countless notes and videos and statistics, the game was finally tomorrow, and although Kazuya admittedly was more confident than most of his teammates (okay, fine, cocky), he could not help feeling the small ache of anxiety before an upcoming game.
“Huh?”
Kazuya knows he should feel embarrassed, or at least ashamed, for having been caught not paying attention, but Eijun either doesn’t seem to notice or he doesn’t care. “Do you always get black coffee? This is the fourth time you’ve been in here this week and that’s all I’ve seen you order.”
That stirs something in Kazuya and allows him to push down the anxiety for the moment and regain his usual tongue-in-cheek arrogance. He leans back in his chair, arms folded tight across his chest. “Why, you got a problem with my coffee order?”
It’s most likely involuntary, but Eijun’s tongue pokes out of his mouth and Kazuya’s eyes are immediately drawn to it. He wonders if this is another habit. “Plain coffee is gross.”
“You’re literally a barista.”
“I like other things! But god, can’t you at least add some sugar?”
“I like my coffee black. So, no.”
Clamping onto the edge of the table like he’s behind the wheel of a car spinning out, Eijun leans forward and starts sputtering. “But what about hot chocolate and caramel macchiatos and pumpkin spice lattes and—”
“I like my coffee to actually be coffee instead of syrup, thank you.”
Eijun rolls his eyes at that and the movement is so amusingly dramatic that Kazuya almost forgets his irritation. “Okay, but it’s 9:00 p.m. on a Friday and you’re drinking black coffee.”
“Yep, and I also have a baseball game tomorrow that I need to prepare for,” he starts to pack up his belongings even if he’s not sure that’s what he really wants, “so if you’re just going to reprimand me for my taste in coffee—”
“Are you nervous?”
Kazuya’s hand stills in mid-air where it’s extended towards his coat. Eijun waits. “No. What makes you think that?”
“Well, if you have a game tomorrow, shouldn’t you be going to bed instead of staying out and loading up on caffeine the night before?”
The boy has hit the nail on the head—Kazuya’s stomach drops like it does when he hears the telltale metallic clang of a bat connecting with a seemingly perfect pitch. The usual sarcastic remarks try to bubble up his throat to save him but he chokes on them instead. Eijun is downright staring at him, not a care in the world that they’re in public and essentially still strangers, and he’s waiting for an answer but Kazuya can’t think of one that isn’t too honest.
“Okay,” he offers as he scrutinizes Eijun. “Maybe I am a little nervous.” It’s an infinitesimal change, but Eijun raises his eyebrows. Kazuya pauses before he continues, considers his next words like it’s the call for a pitch during a full count with the bases loaded. “Coming here helps me unwind and I didn’t really know what else to do so…”
Kazuya trails off and it’s at that moment that Eijun’s eyebrows shoot up his forehead, this time very noticeably.
“Coming here helps you?”
Eijun’s eyes are too hopeful; they remind Kazuya of a puppy. Memories of his childhood drift to the forefront of his mind and suddenly he pictures his neighbor’s shaggy dog, the one that used to always chase him on his way home from baseball practice as a child. It was the part of the day that young Kazuya had always dreaded the most. And it wasn’t that he didn’t like dogs, it was just that this dog was a little too much and for Kazuya, it took some warming up to.
Shaking the image from his mind, he picks up his mug that had long grown cold and stares into the brown abyss when he answers with a very practiced air of nonchalance. “Sure, yeah.”
And like the sun piercing through the clouds on the first warm day of spring, Eijun breaks into a grin that Kazuya doesn’t understand how his face is physically capable of holding.
It’s all a little too much again, too alien, and Kazuya is caught off guard enough that it takes him a moment to process Eijun’s next words.
“Let’s go somewhere,” Eijun says out of the blue.
Kazuya’s at a loss. Had he not just been reprimanded by this very boy for staying out late? “Go where? It’s nine at night.”
“You’ve been here all night so I know you haven’t eaten. There’s a restaurant I’ve wanted to try down the street. Let’s go.”
It’s true—he hasn’t eaten dinner, and to be honest, he wouldn’t entirely be opposed to the idea. But Kazuya is a creature of habit and someone who always has to have control of the reins in any given situation. He’s a playmaker on the field and off, carefully orchestrating everything in such a way that he comes out on top…until this loud, impulsive barista threw him off course like a wild pitch. So, as a last desperate attempt at maintaining control, Kazuya blurts out the first excuse he can think of. “I have to finish my coffee.”
“You haven’t touched it in the last half hour,” Eijun states, already standing up to put on his jacket. “Let’s go!”
Kazuya opens his mouth to continue arguing but when Eijun grabs his notebook and pens and runs right out of the café, Kazuya has no choice but to chase after him and he really doesn’t mind.
(What he does mind is how fast the boy is and how long it takes him to catch up to him because, honestly, god damn.)
The restaurant is nothing fancy—just your typical hole-in-the-wall ramen shop, but to two struggling university students, it seems like a culinary paradise. Their food comes quickly and Eijun is already scarfing his down before Kazuya even picks up his chopsticks. They stay quiet for a while, except for the extra loud slurping on Eijun’s end, until all that’s left is to finish their drinks. This is when Eijun begins his questioning and Kazuya braces himself because in spite of Eijun’s instance that it tastes like utter shit, the boy is already two cans of beer in and already Kazuya can tell that he is so obviously a lightweight.
“So what high school did you go to that managed to get you a starting position at Hosei?”
“Seido.” The word tastes proud on his lips.
“Seido?” Eijun, now gulping from his third can, chokes and Kazuya laughs as it dribbles down his front. “The Seido?”
“Yep,” Kazuya nods. Something burns behind his cheeks and he brushes it off as the alcohol coursing through his own system. “That’s the one. How about you?”
It takes Eijun a minute to regain his composure before he can answer. “I’m actually from Nagano, so it’s a very”—he hiccups—“small school. You wouldn’t have heard of it.” He stands up then, very violently knocking into the table and Kazuya thanks god for his catcher reflexes because they’re the only thing that stop the dishes from tumbling to the ground. “But we had the best goddamn baseball team!” he declares, eyes ablaze with sincerity. Kazuya feels it’s best not to mention that if they were indeed the best team, they would have made it to Koshien like Seido did, so instead he nods and gestures at Eijun to sit down.
“So should I assume school brought you out here?” he asks, covertly pulling the not quite empty can away from the younger boy.
Eijun nods triumphantly. “Yes! I applied and tested into Waseda because I wanted to make my high school team proud.”
This time, Kazuya’s the one to spit out his drink. “You didn’t get in on an athletic scholarship?”
“Not to Waseda, no. They didn’t give me any offers.” He hiccups a couple more times and nearly falls out of his chair at one point, but this time Kazuya can’t find it in himself to berate him so he just waits for Eijun to continue. “But this was the school I wanted so I studied and somehow got in and here I am!” he juts a thumb proudly against his chest before deflating the tiniest bit. “Well, I mean I’m just a reserve pitcher now, but just you wait, Miyuki-san!” He thrusts out his left hand in a victory sign and Kazuya smacks it away.
“Say,” Kazuya begins hesitantly, unable to meet Eijun’s eyes, “we should play catch sometime. If you want.” It’s the alcohol talking. Definitely the alcohol talking.
“Are you kidding me!?” Eijun stands up again from the force of his words (“Oi, sit down,” Kazuya urges.) “Of course! None of the catchers at Waseda ever agree to catch for me and I even say please when I ask them all the time, I don’t understand—”
“Well, I’ll do it,” Kazuya offers, very careful to keep his smile from seeming too genuine. “But it’s on my terms, you hear?” he bargain, gesturing towards Eijun with the can in his hand. “And we’re going to do things the way I want.” Eijun nods in tandem with Kazuya’s every word. His mouth is hanging open slightly and Kazuya catches a glimpse of tongue. When Eijun doesn’t look away, Kazuya throws back the rest of his drink.
When they finally leave, it’s almost midnight, and it’s only because the manager refuses to serve them any more drinks and chases them out. They tumble out into the street and Eijun is laughing wildly and Kazuya realizes he is too (still definitely the alcohol). He offers to walk Eijun home even though their apartments are in opposite directions and for what Kazuya is sure is the first time in Eijun’s life, he doesn’t argue.
It’s an uncharacteristically warm, muggy night, the kind that sticks to you like sweat-sodden clothes. But Kazuya doesn’t mind the heat because he doesn’t realize how far outside of town Eijun lives until the buildings have thinned down almost completely. Eijun’s stumbling a few steps ahead of him, drunkenly babbling into the night about some shoujo manga he’d read last week, and although Kazuya can’t for the life of him keep up with the boy’s slurred yet somehow still too-quick words, he finds himself drawn into the conversation anyway.
“The whooole thing was puh-predictable, really,” Eijun blabbers, a hint of patronizing disappointment coloring his tone. “You could see the kiss coming from a mile away.” As Eijun rolls his eyes, Kazuya thinks that he’s in for a long, drunken critique on the proper pacing of romance in manga until Eijun abruptly silences and comes to a halt in front of him.
Kazuya nearly knocks into his back. “Wha–”
“Let’s play catch!” Eijun squeals, gesturing furiously at the sad excuse of a baseball field to their left. The look on his face is surprised enough, like a child receiving an unexpected gift on Christmas morning, but even with the alcohol clouding over his every thought, something in the back of Kazuya’s mind tells him that Eijun—who was now pleading at him with very large, innocent eyes—had purposely taken the scenic route home.
“We don’t have equipment…?”
Eijun waves his hand between their faces dismissively. “No, no, no. We can pretend!” And then he’s got his arm crooked into Kazuya’s elbow and is dragging them both behind the chain-link fence.
“Pretend? What are you, twelve?”
“Oh, sorry, grandpa. Come on, live a little!” Then Eijun lets go and shoves him roughly towards home plate and it’s all Kazuya can do to keep himself from face-planting into the dirt.
He watches as Eijun runs up to the mound, a liveliness in his gait not from the one too many cans of beer, but one that makes it clear he’s done it a million times. It was all silly, really; Kazuya couldn't even recall ever playing pretend as a child and yet, here he was, a grown-ass man, going along with this sunshine of a boy's absurd idea at an embarrassingly fast rate. He squats down, knees creaking slightly from the unconventional hour, and looks up at Eijun from 18.44 meters away but it feels so much closer and when he can see the boy’s eyes spark even in the pitch of night, he wonders if this is the universe's way of giving him the childhood he never had.
“Runners on first and third,” he calls, doing his best to stop from wobbling and falling over in a drunken heap. “Leadoff is up to bat. He’s a lefty.”
“Me too!” Eijun shouts joyously as he bursts into giggles, but then a second later, he nods resolutely, the shift so stark that it gives Kazuya goosebumps. He breathes deeply through his nose, willing his nerves to calm the fuck down because it’s just catch (and pretend at that), before signaling towards the ground with his index finger.
Eijun winds up, lifts his leg so, so high and it’s…weird. He’s like putty, more rubber band than boy, and Kazuya only barely catches himself as he starts to fall forward and this time it’s definitely not the alcohol.
And then Eijun snaps with the ferocity of an arrow from a bow, plants his foot so firmly into the ground, hips so sturdy, and whips his left arm through the air. There’s no ball of course but the force of the pitch knocks Kazuya breathless and he sits there, arm outstretched before him and still kind of teetering side to side, unaware that his mouth is hanging open in awe until Eijun notices and calls him out on it.
“You look so stupid!” Eijun gasps around a new fit of ravenous laughter before he tumbles to the ground, landing on his ass spectacularly. He clutches weakly at his stomach, doubled over from the force of his guffaws, and there’s just something so fucking endearing about it that Kazuya is laughing too.
“I to-told you I wuh-was the best pitcher in Japan!” He’s crawling towards Kazuya then (which is good because Kazuya’s limbs feel like lead and he’s not sure he could move even if he wanted to) and it’s only when there’s a sudden warmth pressed up beside him that Kazuya realizes he’s on the ground too, right up against the other boy. And it’s still hot, still hazy, still very, very drunk, but it’s good.
Kazuya rolls onto his back, chest heaving from laughter, and Eijun is so close that he feels him do the same more than sees it. “No, no, you changed it to the best pitcher in Tokyo.”
“That’s right!” Eijun calls into the night, shouts it like a battle cry. “You hear that, Tokyo? I’m the best goddamn pitcher you’ve ever seen!”
And then Kazuya’s hand is in Eijun’s hair, and he can see the sprinkle of freckles across his nose again and the vibrant blush behind them and Eijun is looking at him so fiercely.
“Can I kiss you?”
Kazuya is still laughing, he can’t stop, and so all he does is nod before Eijun leans in. For a panicked second, he wonders if his breath still smells of coffee and then he wonders what Eijun tastes like and he’s kissing him.
It’s soft at first…and messy. There’s too much spit and dirt coming up from the ground and neither of them can seem to keep their teeth from getting in the way, but Kazuya expects nothing less from this chaos of a boy and he can only pray that he’s a better kisser himself. He’s careful about it, lets Eijun take the lead, only mimicking his actions. It’s not until Eijun is on top of him, tongue pressing into Kazuya’s mouth and knee pressing between his legs, that he notices how his pants have grown tight, feels even through all their layers how Eijun’s have too.
But he lets him continue, and winds his fingers into Eijun’s hair to pull him flush against him as Eijun’s lips travel to suck at his neck, just for a few more oddly blissful moments. It’s only when Eijun pulls away, gasping for breath he certainly hadn’t needed to catch when he ran from Kazuya at the café, that Kazuya finally finds his words.
“We have to go. Game tomorrow.” Something pulls at Kazuya’s chest as he rolls away from Eijun and climbs to his feet, but when he looks down at him and offers him his hand, the other boy is still smiling.
“Yeah, yeah. Duh,” Eijun sighs, gripping Kazuya’s hand tightly as he’s hoisted up. He stumbles as soon as he’s upright but Kazuya has his hand snaked around his hip in an instant. His waist is slender, but not delicate, Kazuya notes. He must run a lot.
Two minutes into the walk home, Eijun’s fingers have curled their way in between Kazuya’s and he’s insisting that it’s because he doesn’t want Kazuya to get lost, but Kazuya doesn’t say a word of protest. When they arrive at Eijun’s apartment another ten minutes later, Eijun is the first to let go.
He doesn’t look at Kazuya now—which is good because if the burning under his cheeks is any indication, Kazuya is blushing, like…stupidly blushing—but he does mumble something under his breath about exchanging phone numbers to make sure Kazuya gets home safe because “I don’t want to be responsible for you getting kidnapped, mugged, or killed on the way home.”
Kazuya texts him the second he steps inside his apartment door.
9:18.
Fuck.
The bright green letters of the clock on Kazuya’s nightstand glare at him. A small part of him remembers hearing his alarm go off, remembers waving off his roommate’s offer of breakfast (Kazuya never could manage much the mornings before games), remembers the sudden lightness in his stomach at the good luck on your game! ^^ text, but most of his thoughts are spent trying to remember how to put on pants while managing to stay upright.
Only moments before, he’d woken up in a terror to find that he’d overslept. Kazuya had a very strict routine for game days, but now with only twelve minutes to spare before the start of practice and a ten-minute commute before him, he has no choice. He throws on his undershirt, jersey, and shoes and almost falls flat on his face when he doubles back into his room to grab his equipment bag. The bags under his eyes feel so deep that he wonders how much it looks like he got punched in the face, but even more worrisome are the numerous large and very incriminating purple bruises that form a deranged sort of collar around his neck. He grabs his keys, hikes up the collar of his undershirt until it’s just below his chin, and runs out the door only thinking about how he wished he had time for coffee.
It’s the bottom of the third inning when the clouds encroach on the sun and it starts to rain, lightly at first and then quite heavily. Kazuya isn’t even surprised by this turn of events; the day had already proved to be an awful one. He adjusts his squat and sizes up the batter before him (a fast runner with a penchant for inside pitches, he recalls) then locks eyes with his pitcher. Rain or not, he’d prepared all week for this game, spent hours and hours in that cramped, little coffee shop pouring over notes, and he wasn’t going to let the weather ruin that.
It takes seven more innings but they do eventually win, but as they climb onto the bus to head home, Kazuya is not able to feel the relief he should. His clothes are completely soaked through and his knees ache from having spent the majority of the last three hours crouched outside in the wet cold. Frenzied bits of victorious euphoria from the team come and go in waves on the ride home and even though he’s the most uncomfortable he’s been in a while, Kazuya is eventually lulled to sleep.
When he’s shaken awake by his teammate and finds that the bus has reached its destination, all that’s on his mind is the feel of calloused hands on his jaw and the taste of cheap beer from someone else’s lips. But then, he looks outside and sees the rain has not let up, causing him to feel infinitely worse than before. His shoulders and neck are cramped from pressing his face up against the chilled window in his sleep and all he really wants is a shower and a cup of coffee. With a very heavy sigh, he gathers his belongings and steps off the bus.
There’s a long line at Sarutahiko when Kazuya arrives an hour later and he realizes he should have expected nothing less. In blatant contrast to the tempest outside, the shop is warm and languorous, with customers packed from wall to wall. He’s stuck at the back of the line, barely just inside the door, and quickly decides his best course of action is to find a table first. He’s waited all day for coffee, he justifies, and he can wait a little longer. And besides, it gives him time to figure out—
“Why so many layers?” Eijun asks, suddenly appearing at Kazuya’s side. Kazuya looks up, startled, to find the line has died down, though the coffee shop is no less busy. Then he focuses on Eijun and maybe it’s just because he’s cold or maybe it’s something else entirely, but Kazuya swears he can feel the warmth radiating from him as he smiles down at him.
“It’s raining,” Kazuya replies matter-of-factly. He knows this isn’t the question Eijun really wants to ask, so he takes the initiative. “By the way, we won.”
“You don’t look too happy about it.”
“I’m not a big fan of rain. And I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
“You know,” Eijun mumbles, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his apron, “I was wondering if you’d come in today.”
“That makes two of us,” Kazuya lies through his teeth. He damn well knows it’s all he’s thought of since the moment he woke up that morning. Since the moment he left last night.
“So, the usual?” Eijun inquires—back at full volume—but he’s already turning around to head back to the counter without even bothering to wait for Kazuya’s answer because he knows better.
Except this time he doesn’t because Kazuya interjects, “Wait!”
Eijun freezes and glances over his shoulder, a little nonplussed. “What?”
And Kazuya knows deep in his soul that he’s going to regret his next words but he asks them anyway. “Got any recommendations today?”
Eijun puts his hands on his hips and puffs out his chest in the most dramatic fashion. “Of course I do! You wait here and I’ll bring something back for you.”
“If I throw up it’s on the house.”
“Challenge accepted!”
And honestly, Kazuya does feel like he’s going to throw up as he watches Eijun traipse back behind the counter. He feels something, at least. But Eijun doesn’t need to know that just yet.