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For someone that prided himself in sharp observational skills, Yoh-san could be awfully dense sometimes.
Admittedly, Haruichi wasn’t displaying it quite so clearly on the surface of his eyes, but he didn’t think he was hiding it either. The knowledge that he simply didn’t have to hurt in ways Haruichi never knew possible.
For someone that seemed so certain of his own attempts to conceal something inscribed in his skin, Kuramochi’s falsified masks of annoyance weren’t able to mislead Haruichi.
Maybe because they were infield partners. Maybe because Haruichi was always looking at him.
Maybe because he hated it.
He knew it all too well; the lingering of eyes, the inconsistent grins that, half of the time, seemed on the verge of a grimace, the – sometimes – intemperate need to steal the feel of one's skin under starved fingertips, the constant swallowing of words that could never see the light of day. Haruichi knew about all of that – for he recognized them all in himself.
Haruichi fell in love with a pair of fast legs, distinctive cackles and words that wouldn’t come.
As he fell, Haruichi watched Youichi collapse for someone else.
It was etched onto Kuramochi, and Haruichi found it funny (if not a little tragic), how Miyuki and Eijun seemed completely oblivious to it. Granted, both of them were too busy with each other to take a look around, but still. Miyuki, undeniably, didn’t navigate social cues as well as he did baseball, but Eijun roomed with Yoh-san while thriving in sociability and communication – though he was a bit overzealous at that. How could he not see the way Youichi’s face frequently cleaned itself of an addictive grin, of a trademark scowl just to take on vulnerability, a clear hint of sadness in it? Haruichi saw it all the time.
In a team where people usually praised Miyuki’s or Furuya’s looks – and, before that, Yuki’s –, Yoh-san seemed embarrassingly unaware of how pretty he was. Haruichi didn’t think it was something Youichi thought too hard about; with the way he displayed himself, Youichi placed all his allure in his roughness, in the bold quality of his surface. It wasn’t unusual though, whenever the topic of crushes came up in between stupid, teenager boys, to hear Yoh-san subtly depreciate himself, making fun of his own face before someone else could. Seeing as the snarky comments typically fell from Miyuki’s mouth, the behavior seemed to, first and foremost, emerge from the need to protect himself, self-preservation at its core.
With the way he sometimes talked, Yoh-san appeared to believe it was impossible for someone to develop a crush on him – courtesy of a brash attitude and a scary face. Whether it was a defense mechanism or a testament to low self-regard, Haruichi wasn’t about to prove him wrong just to get rejected a second later.
The thing was, Youichi was beautiful, one way or another. He was gorgeous when laughing unrestrained, captivating when competitive and breathtaking in his simplicity after a shower, at the end of a long day. Whenever he got that pensive, resigned look on his face – result of the acceptance that he never was going to kiss the boy he liked – Yoh-san looked strikingly pretty, waves of heartache carrying his oblique beauty.
Yoh-san, when aiming for apathy but only ever expressing melancholy, always took Haruichi’s breath away, left him tingling.
At first, Haruichi berated the cruelty of his eyes seeing beauty in suffering but after so long of watching Kuramochi rot from unrequited love, he didn’t mind the twisted ways in which he perceived things. When Youichi paid him back in equal measure, when he made bitterness the standard taste on his tongue, Haruichi didn’t think it was cruel of him in the slightest.
Not when, furthermore, everything he did felt like a lame excuse to get closer, catch little pieces of Yoh-san for himself, all at the expense of his senpai’s ignorance.
On that note, Haruichi knew how much of a valuable baseball player he was, reliable and hardworking, and he didn't need anyone telling him so. Still, he longed for Youichi's generous praises, eager for whatever Yoh-san was willing to give him. Throw his way like the balls they handled around second base. Yoh-san did it so effortlessly and it was pathetic how Haruichi anxiously craved the casual, unscripted compliments. He flourished at the sight of a thumbs up, at the endearing resonances of his partner’s excited laughter, at the customary bumping of their mitts to celebrate an out. Haruichi still blushed when Yoh-san showed his appreciation for his batting skills, trusting that Haruichi was able to bring him home.
(Because yeah, he really was.)
Haruichi’s mouth filled with sweetness – his lungs with flowers – at the minimum Yoh-san offered, half-baked under what Haruichi saw him squash down on the daily.
For that, Haruichi treasured the knowledge that him and Yoh-san were striving to be Japan’s best keystone duo together. He held the aspiration in his calloused palms with the utmost care, knowing that it was something Youichi shared with him and no one else. Miyuki-senpai took no part on it. No matter how petty that thought process proved itself to be, it was the only thing Haruichi had to hold on to. And he refused to let go.
Regardless of how special or personal it was, the boy that held Kuramochi’s shredded heart wasn’t Haruichi and that reminder always felt like a punch to the gut. The unclouded yearning in Kuramochi’s eyes constantly emphasized that, out of the field, Haruichi was simply… Haruichi. Haruichi who was small and skinny, shy at times, occasionally still a bit awkward around the edges; Haruichi who was always going to be someone else’s little brother – how could Yoh-san look at him, spare him some of the overflowing affection in his eyes when he was best friends with Miyuki Kazuya?
The tenderness on his tongue took on a bitter taste instead – the flowers inside him wilted – and Haruichi tried to ignore the fact that he was so irrelevant he didn’t even fit into the peripheries of the perimeter Yoh-san regarded with those eyes.
Haruichi would never let the words – locked in his chest, clawing up his throat – form, acquire syllables and tones of their own. His feelings for Yoh-san only had sounds inside of him, only reverberated in his body’s borders and nowhere else.
If Haruichi thought about it, this was a story about absences. Kuramochi’s words for Miyuki wouldn’t come and Haruichi’s for Youichi wouldn’t either, for they were useless. Miyuki’s words for Youichi and Youichi’s for Haruichi wouldn’t as well, for those didn’t exist.
And that was fine, Haruichi concluded early on. He wasn’t in Seidou for that sort of thing anyway. Haruichi was going to focus on his batting, on his fielding, on becoming a better baseball player for their team, since those depended solely on him. Despite the solitary aspect of it, Haruichi was also going to hold onto what he had, the quick fumbling around second base that, unfailingly, got his heart racing.
To protect it, to keep it where it was, Haruichi kept his chest open, his mouth shut.
For someone that prided himself in, no matter how many drawbacks, reaching for everything he wanted, Haruichi was going to keep his greedy fingers by his side, hanging weakly or curled in tight, unwilled fists – just like all the words he had inside.