Work Text:
Miyuki doesn’t mean to find out, it just sort of happens.
Sprawled on the floor with papers and textbooks littering every inch of space are two third years currently attempting to absorb the first few week’s curriculum before their impending tests in the morning.
While their prowess on the diamond is well known, it remains to be seen in their academic endeavors. Neither of them score particularly high on exams but not too low that they have to retake any exams. Studying is an unfortunate byproduct for the pair. No matter how lenient the school is towards their affiliation with the baseball team, high school physics does not, unfortunately, come naturally to them.
It’s become routine, Miyuki in Kuramochi’s room. Sawamura is always out late running with his beloved tire and Asada remains in the cafeteria dutifully finishing his three bowls of rice. With free range of their room, Kuramochi accommodates the space to fit their studying needs, which is really just pillows strewn haphazardly around to cushion their aching bodies from arduous practices. But Kuramochi always says he works best that way, everything laid bare with no real method to the madness, straggling through a different subject every half hour. Miyuki prefers a more outlined approach, a neat stack of his textbooks and his focus on a particular theory until it’s sound in his mind is the lone light of organization in their study sessions.
By some miraculous twist of fate, the two have shared the same class since their first year. Miyuki fondly recalls the moment Kuramochi read his third year class assignment, staring up at the board in slight disbelief.
“Third time’s the charm!” Miyuki teased the boy next to him.
Kuramochi, in perfect form, delivered a knee to the back of Miyuki’s thighs, sending the catcher stumbling slightly to the side only to have the culprit pull him back, arm around his neck, responding with some line about how he’s the only one that can handle the asshole.
“Poor Nabe-chan wouldn’t last a day,” Kuramochi sneered, peering down at the boy locked in his hold.
Miyuki had laughed, face tucked into the jut of a collar bone, hand grasping the back of the other boy’s sweater.
Miyuki speculates their positions within the renowned Seidou Baseball starting team has much to do with their inevitable academic partnership. Practice hours and match schedules are hectic at best and imposing that on a regular student would be rude and frankly, plain evil.
But the real evil of the night is calculus.
“If I sleep on my textbook maybe I’ll magically know everything in it. Osmosis, or whatever,” mutters Kuramochi, partially muffled by his face planted flat on the open textbook full of problems on derivatives.
“Don’t think it works like that,” Miyuki muses, flickering his gaze from his textbook to the shortstop lying next to him whose brain is getting demolished by number and letter combinations that he can make no sense of.
“Shut up, how do you know?”
Miyuki snickers into the back of his hand gripping his pencil, “I’m sorry, which one of us almost had to retake their biology exam? Certainly not me.”
Kuramochi growls low, rolling over to face the ceiling, the page his face had gotten well acquainted with crumpling under his head. Miyuki is acutely aware of the warmth radiating off the boy next to him, distracted by their hips nearly touching and the elbow bumping him in retaliation for his comment. Kuramochi’s annoyed face flickers in his peripheral vision.
He rereads the same problem for the third time.
Having a classmate as a neighbor is easier. Living in the same building, they never have to inconvenience other students with their heinous schedules, simply walking down a flight of stairs is enough for Miyuki. It’s like this; always like this. Cooped up in a small room shoulder to shoulder, Kuramochi’s shirt brushing Miyuki’s arm, the smell of his shampoo drifting in the room, his usual styled hair free from product falling into his face.
The TV monitor buzzes, the black and white static Kuramochi loves hearing when he’s studying is loud in the room. The cool spring air seeps through the walls while the heater hums softly in the night.
They stay like that for a few more minutes; shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, Miyuki reading the same problem, Kuramochi staring up at the ceiling.
Suddenly the shortstop sits up, eyes blinking into focus, he gruffly mumbles, “Shit, still gotta review the last lesson for the calc exam. Gonna head to the vending machines, wake myself up a bit, want anything?”
Shaking his head, Miyuki finally completes the problem plaguing his mind the past five minutes. He scans the last portion of his worksheet, “Where’s your notebook? I didn’t get a chance to write everything down during math class.”
He snorts, “Cut the shit, I know you read scorebooks all day. It’s somewhere over there,” nodding his head in the direction of his self-made disaster of a floor.
“Better than falling asleep in class!” he calls out as Kuramochi walks out the door, flipping his middle finger up, knowing Miyuki is looking.
Locating the lone notebook Miyuki knows Kuramochi scribbles his entire day’s worth of notes in is easy, a battered red A5 notebook with a small rip in the bottom right corner Miyuki knows Kuramochi likes to fiddle with during lessons. Flipping through the pages is easier than deciphering the doodles and symbols that Kuramochi utilizes for his version of note-taking, but it’s been nearly three years of studying together and Miyuki prides himself on being able to understand most of it.
Kuramochi is right though, he spends most of class poring over scorebooks and simulations so while his notes are eons neater, the simple fact of the matter is that Kuramochi actually writes stuff down. His math notes are of the more legible variation, so he keeps an eye out as he flits through the pages.
Something catches his eye as he sifts a few pages back, eyes widening in surprise when he takes a moment to study the page. Spanning edge to edge are sketches. Sketches of Sawamura . From rough outlines to detailed illustrations, there’s Sawamura pitching, Sawamura yelling, Sawamura smiling. The vivid amber of his fierce eyes, the curve of his cheek, the span of his back after he throws a strike.
There’s a kind of love, a kind of adoration that reeks from the lines, it’s tangible, a path, gripping, pulling, reeling him in like he’s a ship lost at sea, and the contours of the pitcher’s face are the beam of a lighthouse, bringing him home. Miyuki almost can’t look, whatever this is, whatever Kuramochi feels for Sawamura, it’s laid bare on the sheet of dotted paper, smudges where lines were erased then drawn over, over and over, to perfection.
Entirely too enraptured by the visage of admiration on the page, Miyuki doesn’t hear the door open, nor does he feel Kuramochi looming above him.
“That doesn’t look like math.”
“What an astute observation, Mr. Lead-Off Batter.”
He receives a kick to the thigh for that one.
“Didn’t realize you drew Sawamura so much, have a little crush do you?” he says, keeping his voice neutral, natural. He does want to know though.
“Please, as if I could get between Sawamura and his tire,” he remarks, absentmindedly scratching his stomach, Miyuki’s eyes tracking the movement, shirt lifting to reveal a thin sliver of tan skin. “Plus I wouldn’t put it past Haruichi to murder me or something.”
Miyuki raises his brows, “Kominato?”
“Yeah, he’s like Sawamura’s one man defense squad. It’s cute,” he comments, flopping stomach down on his favorite pillow, “Here, I got you a Pocari, I know you’re gonna stay up looking at scorebooks until some obscene hour instead of studying.”
Miyuki blinks. He’s not wrong because despite it all he is the clean up, catcher and captain all at once and Miyuki has never taken those positions lightly. Everyone’s relying on him in some form or another and if pondering over scorebooks and videos late into the night is what it takes, Miyuki has no qualms.
Abruptly shaken out of his thoughts by the press of the freshly purchased Pocari on his cheek, he yelps loud. The shortstop spares him a knowing glance, “Take it, idiot.”
Kuramochi pushes his shoulder against Miyuki’s gazing down at the sketches laid out in front of them, “Sawamura’s fun to draw, he’s got the best expressions.”
The catcher hums noncommittally, appraising the work in front of him, “These are really good.”
Jostling their connected shoulders softly, Kuramochi starts, “I’ll admit that you get better marks in most subjects, but never in a million years will your stick figures surpass me in art.”
Feeling the light tickle of the shorter man’s hair against the side of his jaw is enough to distract him from the conversation. Miyuki’s good at feigning normalcy though, ignoring the flutter in his chest, the heat that pools in his stomach and he retorts, “Excuse me, Picasso would be reveling in my art.”
Kuramochi cackles into the slope of Miyuki’s shoulder at the absurd statement, the huff of his laugh is warm and it sears onto the slit of skin below the sleeve of his shirt, bright, bold, familiar and unfamiliar all at the same time.
Miyuki leaves that night with math symbols lodged in his head, a Pocari Sweat in his hand and a lingering warmth on his shoulder.
<3
Miyuki wakes the next morning with his face in a scorebook, the remnants of condensation from the Pocari Sweat splattered on the page. Yawning wide, he makes his way to the bathroom in preparation for the morning practice.
Six AM comes and goes like the inevitable rise of the sun, like the ping of a bat making full contact with the ball, flying out of sight. It comes and goes like the inning’s and out’s of a game and Miyuki’s freshly washed undershirt is thoroughly soaked through by seven. Seidou’s baseball burns through the morning hours with harsh running practice and the promise of even harder work in the afternoon.
His body is aching nicely by the end of morning practice as they shuffle to the cafeteria to recuperate through the act of consuming one too many bowls of rice.
Sitting at their usual table, Miyuki is finishing his second bowl of rice after sneakily transporting a third of his first bowl into Zono’s. Kuramochi had kicked him mid rice-drop, but Zono had hardly noticed, wolfing down the excess with ease. Whistling merrily at his success, Miyuki shot a grin at Kuramochi, who just shook his head in response. Zono had always been an easy target since his first year and while aware of the catcher’s propensity at disposing of his rice unto others, he had never quite been able to avoid the slip of rice into his bowl like the other third years learned.
“Hey, Kuramochi.”
Glancing up after a slurp of his miso soup, he nods in recognition, “Oh? What’s up, Shirasu?”
Piled high on his tray is a heaping bowl full of rice, small platters of pickled vegetables and a beautifully grilled mackerel in an array that mirrors the rest of the team’s breakfast. Shirasu pauses by Kuramochi, balancing his tray with ease, “Have any more sketches of me by chance? Mom adores them.”
Kuramochi lets out his signature laugh, tilting his head back to look up at Shirasu, “I do, but tell your mom to stop trying to pay me. It’s not like she asks me to draw you.”
“Yeah, good luck trying to tell her that,” he says dryly, as he moves to set his tray next to Nori. Nori leans over to inspect Shirasu’s fish because he prefers his mackerel a bit more charred and an inevitable main dish swap always occurs if Shirasu happens to be in possession of one.
Eyeing Nori amusedly as he switches the fish having decided that yes, Shirasu’s mackerel was preferred to his own, Miyuki shifts his eyes back to Kuramochi, asking in disbelief, “You send Shirasu’s mom sketches ?”
“ Shirasu sends my sketches to his mom,” Kuramochi corrects, standing to get his second bowl of rice.
Miyuki blinks into the empty chair in front of him. All of this is news to Miyuki. Shirasu fills in all the blanks while the shortstop is greeting the cafeteria staff, calls of good morning and cheery laughter fill the back area.
“Mom can’t make it to a lot of games because of work and when Kuramochi found out he asked if he could draw me during games and practices, to send to my mom,” he explains, neatly breaking the fish into small pieces with his chopsticks, murmuring a small greeting before digging in, “said something about if she can’t make it at least she can get a picture of how I play in a game. Sentimental bastard, that one.”
Nori nods his head enthusiastically in agreement, “After that I found out too so I told him to draw me anytime! Helps to see my posture when I pitch, plus my family likes them.”
“Shut up! At least his sketches of you are accurate. I can’t send any of mine to my family!” Zono yells out, brandishing a paper with a detailed image of his at-bat face. Heavy shadows accentuate the hard lines of his focused face, eyes set almost maniacally.
All three regulars mutter at the same time, “That looks exactly like you.”
Zono shouts in anguish, cursing Kuramochi while shoveling the rest of his vegetables into his mouth. Miyuki takes that time to analyze the sketch in front of Zono. It’s beautiful, despite Zono’s adamance about its dubious facsimile, Miyuki can see the effort in the lines and shadows and he’s seen first hand that exact expression during practices.
“Oi, my ears are burning, idiots.”
Sending a downright threatening look to the third year players, Kuramochi stalks back to the table. Everyone merely ignores the glare, continuing the conversation as if Kuramochi has made a blasé comment about the weather.
And honestly the look is equitable to that. The most likely to come up victorious in a fist fight out of all Seidou players would be him, but equally anyone who is considered a friend to Kuramochi can rely on his infallible loyalty–the story of him willingly avenging his middle school mates without a second thought even with a prestigious high school offer on the line is well known at Seidou.
It’s passed through the entire team and by the time the first year’s hear of it, the story is so embellished that they think him as some yankee with a heart of gold. Miyuki knows much of that has to do with Sawamura’s penchant for particularly thrilling storytelling mirrored in his extensive Shoujo manga collection. All the third years know his harsh words and looks contain no real heat to them, no intention to deliver because for all his brash words and wrestling moves, he would do anything for his friends.
“Nothing, just talking about your depiction of Zono’s beautiful face,” Miyuki waves off handedly, leaning his elbows on the table.
Peeking over at the paper in Zono’s hand, Kuramochi snickers, “You still have that? I told you I have other ones.”
“Shut up!” Zono sniffs, “This was the first one you gave me, I’m not so rude to throw it away.”
“Who's the sentimental bastard now?” Nori laughs.
“You should ask Sawamura for tips on how to frame it. Idiot kept the very first sketch I drew of him too, though it was just him yelling at Azuma senpai,” he snubs, knowing the boy is eagerly listening in, ear turned toward their conversation.
“Oi Kuramochi senpai!” Sawamura calls out from the table behind, Furuya dozing off to his left, head nodding into his chest, Kominato shaking his head across the table.
Turning to face Sawamura, he puts his menacing face on, “Hah? Got something to say Bakamura?”
“No! But you should really think about drawing shoujo manga, I’ve got great ideas, Cheetah senpai!”
“Shut up, we’re playing Street Fighter tonight! Loser becomes the other’s gopher.”
Sawamura blanches, yelping in indignation as the rest of the players in the cafeteria ignore the nearly daily shouts. Kominato calls his name and immediately Sawamura quiets, face puckered in betrayal at his friend’s eerily similar face to his older brother.
Miyuki commends little Kominato. Getting Sawamura to shut up is no easy feat. Kuramochi nudges his shin from across the table, “Ready to go? I wanna go over the last chapter before class starts.”
Taking the last bite of his fish, Miyuki nods, the greeting signifying the end of his meal falling from his lips. Kuramochi tells Shirasu to come by during break to collect the sketches and Miyuki clears his throat, trying not to focus on the idea of Kuramochi sketching.
But Kuramochi does sketch. Kuramochi sketches Sawamura. Kuramochi sketches Shirasu and Nori and Zono too. Kuramochi sketches everyone but him.
If Miyuki is anything, he is rational. He knows he merely has to ask, but given the fact that he is seemingly the last to know of the shortstop’s proclivities towards drawing, he can’t quite bring himself to believe that there are shapes of him etched into the smooth dotted paper of Kuramochi’s notebook.
He clambers out of his seat, striding alongside his vice captain out the cafeteria doors talking about their upcoming quiz, pushing the intrusive thoughts out of his mind. Just like baseball, focus on the present and don’t let anything distract him from his goals. Miyuki grins when he feels the dig of Kuramochi’s knee on the back of his legs, pushing him forward as they bicker about which of them will score higher on the quiz.
And truly, none of this should bother Miyuki.
It’s just that, it really really does.
<3
The first weeks of classes go by without a hitch, everyone’s shoulders light with the normalcy that school brings. Practice is over for the evening but none of them are remotely done, all of one mind to continue on their own deep into the night.
Kuramochi finds Miyuki in the stream of Seidou baseball players straggling from the field, covered in dirt and sweat. He waits, like a stone parting the flow of the water and together they walk, the stream weaning off into trickles, everyone heading in different directions to their respective choices of post practice training.
Miyuki comments about Sawamura’s quiz results, the boy had not made the expectation of a retake secret to his teammates, complaining loudly to Miyuki from the bullpen. Sawamura had lingered behind for his daily evening run with his tire, shouts of challenge sprinkled with encouragement toward Furuya jogging alongside him fading behind them.
Kuramochi laughs at that. Loud into the air, the lilt of it floating with the caw of the crows from the nearby telephone line, the expanse of the sunset painted violet and flecked with gold following them home. Miyuki likes it best like this, sweat cooling with the falling sun, bat hanging over his shoulder, Kuramochi always walking a half step ahead with his head tilted back, looking at Miyuki.
In moments like these Miyuki wishes it were he who would draw so he can engrave this vision into something tangible.
But instead Miyuki will ingrain the shift of Kuramochi’s eyes to the setting sun in his mind. Miyuki will remember the drip of sweat from his brow to the strand of hair that escaped the pomade, stuck to his forehead. Miyuki breathes in. The freshly watered grass on the sidewalk, the ringing of bikes as students glide by, the scent from the glove oil Kuramochi likes to use.
Miyuki takes it all in and wonders if it is enough.
<3
Miyuki realizes a few days later that it is not enough. Not even close.
Kuramochi and his damn sketches stick with him every waking hour and even in the blissful nothingness of sleep they appear, as if to taunt him of his absence in the shortstop’s worn notebook.
It never affects his performance on the diamond. Locked away in a little box for the entirety of nine innings is about the best he can do, the box teetering and bursting at the seams, threatening to overflow by the end of any game or practice.
Instead, Miyuki thinks. It isn’t some world changing revelation, no slow motion scene played out like in the movies. Simply, he thinks about what it would be like after high school. The idea of Kuramochi at his side in the future is not one that he is opposed to, not at all, rather he can’t bring himself to think of any other scenario.
From a young age Miyuki has only ever had baseball on his mind. The feeling of analyzing a play correctly with the satisfying smack of the ball in the palm of his glove is one he craves, coveting the wave of triumph that washes over him. The catcher position is like no other; the thrill of calling the shots and seeing the open space in the field come to life with the movements of the infielders. This is an area he can control, a place where he can have fun.
So having something outside of baseball occupying so much of his mind is enough for him to guess. Despite how callous and candid he might come off, Miyuki is well attuned to his own emotions, understanding the myriad of emotions his heart experienced at a tender age of six when his mother closed her eyes for the final time. And again at age ten, wrapping an extra plate of fried rice for a father who could never bother sitting at the same table for ten minutes.
Miyuki is used to acknowledging the reality of a situation. So he can accept this for what it is. He likes Kuramochi. Probably has for a while. Simple.
Less simple is his plans going forward. That is to say, he has no plans of acting on these feelings so he needs to decide how he’s going to keep them bottled away.
Nothing is going according to plan though because it has recently come to his attention just how often he and Kuramochi touch. Miyuki wouldn’t necessarily call himself a tactile person, in fact, he would go so far as to say he’s the opposite. When he encourages his pitchers it’s mitt-to-mitt, a joking insult to ego, words that pierce the heart. His catcher gear bears the brunt of claps on the back from his teammates.
Not with Kuramochi.
A clasp of their hands as Kuramochi comes home because if their usual batting line up works, then he’s always going full speed toward second base by the time the Kominato swings. If Shirasu is third then there’s a high probability that Kuramochi will run home, where Miyuki is waiting.
Their eyes will meet bright with adrenaline and the thrum low in his chest will always overpower the brass instruments blasting away in the crowds. There’s no cheering, no shouting, just Kuramochi coming home and Miyuki there to greet him.
It’s different. Being on the offense he has no catcher gear keeping him together, keeping him safe. A catcher without his catching gear is just a baseball player. A Miyuki Kazuya without his catcher’s gear is just a boy free to fall to the whims of whatever storm Kuramochi brings. Miyuki is aware of how vulnerable it makes him feel. But his lack of awareness when the shortstop is in the vicinity is telling enough.
He’s comfortable. In whatever space Kuramochi has shaped out for him, he can exist there, without worry if he is good enough, or if he’s too much. He can be Miyuki Kazuya, seventeen, loving baseball endlessly, entirely.
So like any rational person, he avoids Kuramochi.
Avoiding the cause of his imminent self destruction would be easier if said cause wasn’t his only friend. So the first step in his plan is effectively over before it can even begin. Stopping his hand before it can get lost in the back of the cheap fabric of Kuramochi’s sweater takes more effort than he initially anticipated, awkwardly bringing his hand to the back of his neck instead.
Kuramochi notices instantly, eyebrows raised in question but keeps silent as if he’s waiting for something. But Miyuki isn’t quite willing to divulge his secret feelings and they dance around each other under the guise of normal bickering.
Except the next week of classes go like a poorly played practice match. Like Miyuki is making all the wrong calls and Kuramochi is running to catch pop fly balls that keep missing his mitt. They’re on the same field but playing two different games and Miyuki can’t keep up. It’s painfully awkward because Kuramochi isn’t doing anything differently, it’s Miyuki who flinches at the arm around his shoulder, who pauses his hand that’s already reaching around Kuramochi’s back, letting it fall to his side instead.
Kuramochi doesn’t even need his observant behavior, hell, Furuya and Sawamura would be able to tell something was off.
Miyuki groans inwardly when he notices Kuramochi approaching him. Today seems to be the end of his reluctant silence he was offering, eyes set in determination like he’s about to steal a base with two outs.
Whispers surround them, always giving them a wide berth because all they talk about is baseball and Miyuki knows they are the least approachable players on the team. Kuramochi has his sleeves rolled to his elbows, the outside of his left hand smeared in graphite, from notes or sketches, Miyuki doesn’t let himself linger on.
“Everything alright?” he questions low, he sneaks a glance at Miyuki then focuses his gaze out the window at the first year students playing soccer. Shouts and laughter of people leisurely exercising in lieu of the intense scrimmage taking place. Miyuki curses Kuramochi’s attentiveness and ability to read him like a damn open book, not that his dodgy behavior was even remotely well hidden.
“I’m just going through some stuff.” Miyuki mentally slaps his face. He sounds like an ass.
Turning to face him fully, Kuramochi narrows his eyes, face set in an inscrutable stare.
“Okay,” is all Kuramochi says because somehow he always knows Miyuki’s limits, knows when to push and pull back. Right now Miyuki is on the cusp of free falling off a cliff with nothing to catch him.
“I’ll be fine. I’ll get over it.”
Kuramochi moves to look down at Miyuki, leaning against the back of the chair, “I didn’t say you had to get over it,” he replies gruffly, eyes never losing their vigor, “but sometimes you forget that I’m here too. I’m your vice captain idiot, you can trust me.”
This almost makes it worse. He doesn’t have the best track record of opening up to his teammates, but this is something he has to deal with on his own. It has nothing to do with baseball.
“Look, I’m not saying you have to tell me, but talk to someone, yeah?”
He trudges out of the classroom, shoulders slightly hunched and Miyuki curses.
<3
The night is clear, a waning crescent glinting gently, the bright lights of Tokyo swallowing the speckles of stars in the sky. The buzz of the cicadas sing in the darkness, welcoming Nabe where he finds Miyuki leaning back on the steps overlooking Field A. His windbreaker is zipped up high to block the nip of the chilly wind while he basks in the glow of the moon.
“I was under the impression that we had come to terms with our roles,” Miyuki jokes in greeting, a jab at their earlier quarrel on these same steps just a few months ago.
Nabe just laughs, “Don’t get Zono started.”
And truly, Miyuki is grateful to Nabe. His initial months as captain were filled with conflict and injury, questioning his ability to lead more times than he cares to confess. Miyuki isn’t the best at tempering relationships, finding it easiest to mold people into the images he desires by rousing them up into fits of anger. But Nabe had been consistent and while maybe not quite holding the same intensity as some of the other players, Miyuki had learned then that sometimes baseball meant different things to different people, and that was alright too.
They stay like that for a few minutes in silence, Miyuki lost in the sky, Nabe leaning against the railing of the stairs.
“I was surprised when he asked me to come talk to you,” Nabe offers after a while, moving to settle on the step above Miyuki.
“No you weren’t,” Miyuki responds, still staring up at the cloudless night, “Nabe, you’re smarter than half the team combined.”
Breathing out a small chuckle, Nabe leans his elbows on his knees, “I would have expected him to know, of all people,” he pauses slightly to look at Miyuki, then continues, “which can really only mean the issue involves him.”
Finally craning his neck to stare at Nabe, Miyuki sighs, “You’re really too smart, Nabe.”
Nabe says nothing further, and again Miyuki is grateful for his ability to read a situation. He doesn’t breach the topic and instead they talk about scores, statistics, and strikes. This is a conversation that he can do, a conversation he can invest himself in fully. And he does so for the next twenty minutes.
While they have not come to a resolution to his behavior, they have concocted a rather foolproof plan against their next practice match against Kizaki High. But Nabe’s perceptiveness is not lost on Miyuki and as much as he might try to convince himself of his desire for solitude, Miyuki craves companionship, likes the idea of coming home to something, someone.
Kuramochi is a constant in his life and Miyuki’s had enough of temporary. Miyuki wants. Miyuki wants in a way he doesn’t often allow himself.
“What do you do when you want something and it’s just out of reach?”
Under the flickering lamp post Nabe is sitting there, self assured, confident, and Miyuki is sure if a stranger were to walk by they would think Nabe the captain. In the silence of the night, his voice rings out, bright and clear like Miyuki’s looking through a telescope, seeing every breadth of stars.
“Make it so it’s not.”
Miyuki breathes in.
“We’re challengers aren’t we?” Nabe states, as if it is the most obvious observation in the world. The shine of the light is like a spotlight on a stage and Nabe’s the main act. It’s at that moment Miyuki thinks that it’s a shame Nabe is on the second string.
“Challengers go for what they want.”
<3
Miyuki approaches Kuramochi, strolling to Field B for morning practice. The sun is peeking over the horizon and Kuramochi is the very picture of morning grace. Hair still loose, not having settled into its styled shape, a few strands dancing in the wind as he roughly brushes it back into place with the palms of his hands. Eyes still groggy with the fading night, the small indent on his cheek indicative of the best kind of sleep and Miyuki thinks he’d like to see this Kuramochi every morning.
Have him in the lull of the rising sun, disgruntled and warm, Miyuki next to him tucked into the crook of his neck. Kuramochi fluttering in and out of sleep to the tittering of the starling’s high in the trees welcoming the sun. Miyuki wants nothing more to entangle his hands with the shorter man’s—calloused palms and all.
Instead he opts for sidling up next to the shortstop, falling in step with him, “You sent Nabe?”
Cracking his jaw wide in a yawn, Kuramochi’s eyes crinkle shut. Blinking rapidly to curb the watering, his eyes glisten prettily in the budding sunrise, narrowing slightly, intensity never wavering as he gives Miyuki a once over, “It worked didn't it.”
“We’ve got a mean strategy for the Kizaki game, if that’s what you mean,” he smirks, leaning his head down.
Kuramochi rolls his eyes and lightly pushes Miyuki’s face away, glasses falling crooked on the catcher’s face. “Shut up, you ass.”
The few days of Miyuki’s self imposed Kuramochi aversion had left him lost. He’s his other half, his vice captain, his best friend; always together. He misses the ease of being at Kuramochi’s side. It’s seamless like a double play screened out perfectly, Miyuki finding Kuramochi’s mitt at second after a strike at bat.
Miyuki sinks into the normalcy, his hands brushing the back of Kuramochi’s as they walk towards enthusiastic shouts from Sawamura echoing in the distance. Keeping his eyes forward, he clears his throat, stomach fluttering as he clutches his bat as a tether to his resolve.
Miyuki Kazuya is a challenger. He wants Kuramochi. A small part of his mind reminds him that these feelings need to be reciprocated for this to be a success but he thinks of Kuramochi brushing his shoulders against his, tucking him into a headlock hand grasping the nape of his neck while Miyuki laughs into the warmth of his side and prays he’s reading into things right.
Then he thinks of graphite smeared fingers filling pages and pages of familiar faces. The silence between them is comfortable, steps echoing on the gravel like the resounding thumps of his heart and Miyuki swallows.
“Can I see your sketches?”
Kuramochi stops in his tracks. Emotions that Miyuki can’t name flicker over Kuramochi’s face but he holds his gaze firm. They wait like that for a few moments, eyes searching. Kuramochi turns and continues down the road.
“I’ll find you after practice.”
Miyuki lets out a breath, letting his bat fall to his side jogging to catch up to the shortstop, “Will you be able to?” he jokes, as if Kuramochi hasn’t been the delegated Miyuki-finder since first year.
Kuramochi gives him the most unimpressed look and Miyuki hopes.
<3
Kuramochi finds Miyuki in the small alcove between the dorm and the warehouse. It’s a silent enough spot for the catcher to sit pondering over the next game, envisioning every pitch and swing. Miyuki likes the solitude that is always accompanied by the repetitive woosh of bats swinging in the air and his teammates' hard work echoing off the walls.
Tucked under his arm are two notebooks, and he nods in greeting plopping down on the bench next to the catcher. He hands over the books calmly, silently nodding when Miyuki sends him a questioning glance. Miyuki’s nerves are stifled by the assuredness of Kuramochi’s actions. The vice captain is good at that. Creating spaces of ease and comfortability comes second nature despite his initial intimidating appearance.
Miyuki flips through the pages silently taking in each stroke, each smudge and committing it to memory. He himself has no patience for the arts but appreciates the effort and time spent on it. The first sketchbook is full of mundane objects: plants, vending machines, the stray cat that wanders around the dorms because Kuramochi always feeds her. Some quickly scratched on the paper and other’s painstakingly revised and redone.
He nears the end of the first book unsure of what he’s looking for. The voice inside his head laughs and points out that he knows exactly what he’s looking for. Just one. Just one measly little doodle would do it for him. Miyuki just wants to know that Kuramochi sees him, silly enough as it is.
And perhaps it is silly because when Miyuki opens the cover to the second notebook he stiffens in surprise, slowly flipping through the worn pages as if someone’s revisited the page time and time again. He’s halfway through the book when he finds his voice, “you have a whole book dedicated to me?”
“It is not the whole book!” Kuramochi protests hotly, neck turning a shade of pink, “It’s a few pages and there are a bunch of simulations in there too, you asshole.”
“Field situations involving us,” Miyuki responds excitedly, “and besides, baseball makes up 99% of my personality so I’m not technically wrong.”
The pages are littered with drawings that range from quick scratches to detailed portraits. He scans the pages, chuckling when he sees a small chibi face wearing a cap sideways with glasses sporting red devil horns.
Kuramochi opens his mouth to argue but Miyuki cuts him off, “I- No- I mean, you have a whole book dedicated to me ?”
Shaking his head in exasperation, Kuramochi stares for a few seconds then sighs fondly, “You, Miyuki Kazuya, are the absolute worst.”
Kuramochi leans his shoulder into Miyuki’s staring up into the darkness of the ceiling, “Since I have the misfortune of being your only friend, I figured I would get something out of it,” he quips, Miyuki snorting in response and Kuramochi continues, “a perk is that you’re not so bad to look at.”
Miyuki blinks. Then he laughs, breathless, “So you like me?”
“Don’t know how being okay to look at equates to me liking you, but I suppose that I do,” he pauses, fiddling with the loose threads at the bottom of his shirt, “like you, that is, have for while.”
Straightening up, Miyuki turns to face Kuramochi. Shifting his gaze the shortstop is already giving him a knowing look.
“How long?” he demands, eyebrows furrowing slightly, “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Nudging his foot against the boy next to him, he starts, “Miyuki, you might be a genius on the diamond but if I had said anything earlier you would have combusted worse than this week.”
“You knew?”
“Well, you didn’t try real hard to hide it,” he answers, chortling softly. He reaches for Miyuki’s hands and intertwines their fingers. They keep eye contact, Kuramochi silently observing, careful. Miyuki doesn’t move his hand. He likes the unevenness of Kuramochi’s hands, filled with callouses that mirror his own and a thumb grazes over the back of his hand.
Miyuki scoffs, but squeezes his hand back, “I resent that, I tried my best.”
Kuramochi hums, “Good thing you’re so good at baseball, I’m afraid your acting career won’t go very far.”
“I could be Doumyouji Tsukasa but Matsumoto Jun couldn’t throw a double play.”
He barks a laugh, “The worst, that’s what you are,” he turns his body to fully face the boy next to him, “but I like that.”
It’s sweet, utterly sincere in this dingy alleyway that Miyuki comes to woefully pore over misplayed innings. Here on the bench that’s on its last end, rickety and splintering at the edges Miyuki thinks there is no better place this could happen.
Trembling, Miyuki reaches his hand out and gently rests it on Kuramochi’s face. He wants to feel the smooth curve of his cheek against his palm, make sure this is real.
“Let’s go. Together, I mean,” Kuramochi says low, mumbling softly into the crease of the sun-kissed palm on his cheek, lips fluttering against his skin like a spring breeze; new and alive, bright and light, “to Koushien.”
Miyuki swallows thickly, the words caught in his throat like the slick heat of a summer day on the back of his jersey, he rasps out, “How else would we go?”
Kuramochi just stares as his lips quirk up, kissing the palm he’s cradling softly.
“Yeah.”
Because that’s who they are at heart. Just two boys, dirt stained uniforms baring their souls for a chance to stand on that stage. They are not kings, merely challengers to the throne and Miyuki wants Kuramochi there every step of the way.
He doesn’t quite know what possesses him to blurt out the question so confidently but it slips out easy, confident and deliberate.
“Can I kiss you?”
Kuramochi stares, nodding almost imperceptibly, “Been waiting for you to ask me that, idiot.”
Miyuki closes the space pausing leaving a hair’s breadth between them, he murmurs softly, “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize asshole, just kiss me,” he whispers and slants his mouth over Miyuki’s easily. It’s simple and short and it takes Miyuki a second to remember to kiss back but it’s good. There's no fireworks in the background moment, no intense back against the wall making out and it doesn’t last for more than five seconds but Miyuki likes it anyhow.
It’s enough, for now. Miyuki peppers kisses once, then twice and then countless times more because he can and because he likes the feel of Kuramochi’s chapped lips against his. He likes how Kuramochi murmurs little comments in between his kisses, muffled by the smack of their lips too focused on melding his hands into the curve of a jaw and committing every dip and arch to memory.
They part, foreheads touching breaths mingling in the air. Miyuki’s glasses have fogged up and Kuramochi snorts loudly, pressing his lips quickly to the catcher’s one last time before he leans back.
They leave the little alcove that night holding hands, Miyuki insisting on walking Kuramochi to his room two minutes away while the latter complains about his sappiness, neck glowing red as he knees the back of his catcher in embarrassment.
“The worst, Miyuki, you are the worst.”
Miyuki just laughs but doesn’t miss the squeeze of his hand.