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It was all too inexplicit for Eijun. He had never been the one for big words—medical ones, especially—and that’s why he found himself furrowing his eyebrows at every word the doctor said. Bronchoscopy. Carcinoma. Epithelial cells. But there were two words he understood entirely.
Lung cancer.
His father squeezed his hands and his mother started to weep silently. The doctor sighed, stating this was always his least favorite part; telling the family. He said he’s very sorry and mentioned that 15% of people in the United States who were diagnosed with lung cancer survived after five years. But he didn’t mention the fact that lung cancer is the most common cause of cancer-related deaths in men and women, and is responsible for 1.38 million deaths every year.
He also didn’t mention that Eijun didn’t have five years.
Eijun stared at his legs with a blank expression on his face. He can’t give up now, of course, but it just seemed so… hopeless. Everything was bats and balls, before that night. He was with his family when it happened. He coughed up blood after having several chest pains and a high fever. The chest pains were something he had felt sometime ago, but he thought it was because of the strict coaching he received as a first-string player. His family rushed him to the hospital, ran a few tests and was told to stay put in the hospital for a few days before they were called in to the doctor’s office. And now here they are, with clenched, trembling fists and silent sobs.
How am I going to tell the others? thought Eijun. He stopped listening to the doctor a few minutes ago. Maybe—maybe I shouldn’t tell them. Maybe I’ll just let them wait until it’s time… Maybe the coach will notice…
“How long do I have?” Eijun swallowed as he heard himself ask.
The doctor sighed. “A month.”
A month. A month until his dreams of becoming Seidou’s ace would be gone, completely. He only had a month left to live, a month left to play baseball, a month left to—to tell his friends. He was deep in his thoughts before he felt his father’s arm tugging lightly at his shoulder.
“C’mon, son,” his father said softly, “Thank you very much, doctor.”
The doctor nodded with a sad expression on his face. “I am praying for your good health, Eijun.” But that’s what all doctors say. Eijun bowed, thanked him and left the room with his parents.
After spending a week with his parents in Tokyo, it was time for Eijun to go back to school. His parents went back to Nagano three days ago. They wished him good luck and reminded him to take his pills. Eijun hated the look on his mother’s face every time their eyes meet. It was filled with sadness and bleakness, like his mother had given up on him. Like his mother knew he wasn’t going to make it. His father gave him a stern look and squeezed his hands again. They made a promise not to tell Eijun’s friends at home because they wouldn't know how to handle it; it would be wise to let them know when it was time. They sucked at goodbyes, Eijun thought, and this wouldn't change any of that.
Eijun took a deep breath as he opened the door to his dorm room, only to find stacks of pudding containers strewn everywhere. He heard the sound of running water coming from inside the bathroom.
“Kuramochi? Is that you?”
Kuramochi-senpai must be practicing right now.
“Ah, Masuko-senpai! It's me, Sawamura,” answered Eijun. Silence. The bathroom door opened, revealing Masuko in his usual white t-shirt and grey pants. He smiled at Eijun.
“Sawamura! How was your vacation?” he asked, taking a clean roll of toilet paper from the drawer. “Anything interesting happened?”
Yeah, I got cancer, Eijun wanted to reply.
“Uh. No, not really,” he shrugged.
“That so? Because you’re acting kinda weird. Did you meet a girl?” asked Masuko casually. He can’t know. Not now, at least. Maybe you should lie to him…
“S-Senpai! How did you know?!”
“Hahaha, common sense is a bit rare these days, isn’t it?” Eijun felt bad for lying to his senpai, but he didn’t want Masuko to know. To be honest, he really wanted anyone to notice there was something wrong. He wanted anyone to notice there was something different about him; he wanted anyone to notice he was getting fidgety again, he wanted anyone to know it wasn’t about girls. It was something more serious than that. He didn’t want to hear the words I have cancer flying out of his mouth without someone confronting him about it. When Masuko-senpai wasn’t looking he took this opportunity to set his bottles of pills behind his pillow. He wondered if he should go practice. He wondered if he would be strong enough to run with a tire tied to his stomach—he wondered if it could kill him. He wondered if he would cough up blood and all the horror would happen again. That’s not how he wanted everyone to know. The doctor said it was okay for him to exercise a little. He should probably tell the coach, then…
He suddenly wondered if this could kick him out of the team.
Eijun brushed off his thoughts and decided to go to the field with his uniform on, even if he probably wouldn’t join practice.
“Ah, hey, Sawamura!” Miyuki. That’s right. Eijun could trust him. “Welcome back! Practice is almost over, though, so you’re a little late…”
“That’s okay. Can I speak with you for a moment? I have something… important… t-to tell you.” Even indirectly referring to it was hard. He must have shown a hard expression because the older pitcher’s face changed and he immediately led him to the administration room, the same room he yelled at Eijun a few months ago.
“Have a seat,” he offered, gesturing at a seat in front of her desk. “What is it, Sawamura?”
No.
“I…” Miyuki didn’t encourage Eijun to speak. He waited patiently, observing the boy silently.
“I… If I… If I had… Would you still let me… I-If I had… Lung cancer…”
Miyuki held Eijun as he had his first real mental breakdown. He was crying, but it was nothing like the crying he had experienced during his time here. He was screaming, he was begging, he was… He was not the Eijun Miyuki had seen all these years. He was numb. Tears were streaming down his face as if he’d never cried before, his shoulders shaking violently while his teeth strongly bit his own lip. He gripped Miyuki’s shoulder tightly, and Miyuki held him securely. Miyuki was carrying a broken boy, the boy he carried so carefully because he was fragile. He knew soothing words would do him nothing. He didn’t care about his now wet uniform; all he cared about was the boy who wanted to be the ace and ended up dying trying to be one, and how this boy was holding on to him like he was the thin thread he held on to for so long.
“You should… you should tell the coach.” Miyuki hadn’t cried in so long, and yet his voice cracked at the end. He stopped to wipe his tears and continued. “You also… should probably tell Chris.”
God, no.
“I know this isn’t helping, but… I’m sorry, Sawamura. I really am. I-It’s not fair,” he said. “Why does it have to be you? You, of all people…”
Eijun ignored his comment.
“How do you think he’d react?”
Miyuki stared at him for a moment.
“…I don’t know, honestly. I wasn’t there when he… you know.” he shook his head. “…But I was there when he was in the hospital. There was something… something different in his eyes. Like he wasn’t even alive. He’s alive, but he’s barely breathing.”
“Do you think he’d blame anyone for this?”
“Yeah. He really watched over you, after all. The person he’d blame is himself.”
Eijun’s bottle of pills suddenly felt very heavy in his pocket.
The next week, Eijun bumped into Chris at the school cafeteria. He was with his fellow third-years, laughing at something Eijun couldn’t quite make out. He glanced at Eijun as he passed by, but Eijun was too preoccupied with Haruichi to even notice. He hadn’t told Haruichi about it, but he was planning to do it soon. Not now, no—this place was too crowded. Eijun couldn’t risk having someone eavesdrop their conversation and spread it to the whole school. He decided to tell him after practice.
“Harucchi!” Eijun called out. He approached Haruichi, who was sitting on the bench after a session of strict practice. “Can I talk to you for a second?”
Eijun noticed Miyuki glancing at him. No—Miyuki was looking at Eijun the whole time today. Eijun couldn’t tell whether he was watching over him, or just… trying to decide the right time to tell everyone else. Eijun led Haruichi to the back of the administration building.
Haruichi was smiling. His eyes were hidden by his hair, as usual, and his cheeks were rosy with mild shyness.
“Harucchi…”
Haruichi’s smile faded. He didn’t like that nickname, but he always answered to it.
“What’s the matter, Eijun-kun?”
“I… I have something to tell you, but promise you won’t tell anyone.” Haruichi looked curious. The pink-haired boy leaned closer.
And then Eijun told him. He told Haruichi about that night, when his mouth spat out so much blood it came dripping to the floor. Haruichi listened. He told Haruichi about the fever. Haruichi listened. He told him about how his muscles felt weak suddenly, like all those years of training never happened. Haruichi listened in silence. He did not spoke a single word until the six words that had been haunting Eijun all week slipped out of his mouth. I was diagnosed with lung cancer. Haruichi’s knees fell to the ground. He was trembling.
"I only have a few weeks."
Kneeling next to Haruichi, Eijun listened as his best friend whimpered. All this time, it had been Eijun who weeped, but after what happened with Miyuki he couldn’t bring himself to cry in front of anyone anymore.
Is this what it felt like to watch someone cry over the thought of losing you?
He wept and clung to Eijun. Eijun hugged him back.
“It’s not as painful as you think it is,” he said. “It won’t be. I promise. I have—I have painkillers.”
“Do those really help, Eijun-kun?” asked Haruichi between his sobs. “Do they literally kill all of your pain? How—How do you do it? How do you…” he sobbed. “How do you do this…”
“I—“
“Do—Will those painkillers help you in these moments, Eijun-kun? Do you—do you know how much… How much people who would… How much people who would need one of those after you’re…” Haruichi shook his head. “You’re a brother to me, Eijun. You’re more than a brother than my real brother. I-I just hope you’ll always remember that.”
“I will.”
The baseman smiled weakly.
“Harucchi… Can you do me… one last favor?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t try to follow me.”
It’s the last week of the month and Eijun still hadn’t told Chris about his condition. When he was about to talk to the coach, it turns out Miyuki had done that for him already. The coach looked at one of his top youngest pitchers.
“There’s something you should know, Sawamura,” he said. “I knew you were outside when I gathered the third-years that day.”
Eijun’s eyes widened. He looked at the coach in disbelief. Why didn’t he…
“The speech wasn’t just for the third years, but it was for you, too. You were the one and only first-year who appeared at three in the morning just to prove to me that you deserve a place in the team.” The coach smiled at the memory. Eijun flinched. “…I paired you with the man who made numerous pitchers quit, and you didn’t. I made you go through hell during the summer training camp, and yet you stand tall. That is something I would never forget, Sawamura. Your specialty isn’t just your moving fastball. The time we spent may be short, but…” The coach released his hands that were previously folded in front of his chest and bowed. “Thank you,” he said. “You do not owe me—I do. We all do.”
For the God-knows-how-many times this week, Eijun had no words. His legs shivered and soon he bowed to the man whom he respected so much, but he was not crying. No. Again, after what happened with Miyuki, it’s as if he had wept too much to the point he couldn’t do it anymore. He hadn’t expect the coach to grieve for him like that, but he did. And then the coach reminded him of something important Eijun hadn’t done yet.
“Tell Chris.”
When Eijun knocked at Chris’ door, all he could think of was how his mentor would react. All he could think of was how he would spent his last minutes. Would Chris be there for him? Would he—would he hold his hands? Or would he be there… but he wouldn’t feel anything?
Eijun felt like the Earth stopped rotating when the door creaked open.
“Who is i… Sawamura?” the boy behind the door—Chris—eyebrows shot upwards, “What’s wrong?”
“I have something important to tell you.” God, he’d done it so many times he actually wasn’t stuttering.
“Oh? Okay, tell me.” Chris talked like nothing was going on. He didn’t know what was going on Eijun’s head. He didn’t know that for Eijun, this was going to determine everything; whether he would… go… peacefully, or the opposite.
“Uh… Are there… people? Because um, I think we need to talk about it inside…”
“Of course there are people, this is a dorm room of three,” Chris’ gentle laugh filled the silence, soothing Eijun’s heart and thoughts. It made him feel better, not good. Better. Not good. There’s a difference, and people tend to overlook it.
“Ah… I see.” Chris’ face changed into a concerned look. “Are you alright, Sawamura?”
NO, Eijun wanted to scream. Of course not. I’m dying—I’m dying, I want to tell you about it, but I can’t. I’m afraid you won’t care. I’m afraid… I’m afraid you’ll try to follow me. I’m not alright.
“I… I…”
I’m sorry.
“I’m…”
In the end… I couldn’t make it up for you.
“Chris-senpai, I’m...”
I don’t want to say it.
“I’m about to…”
I don’t want to say goodbye.
“Maybe… tomorrow…”
I don’t want to leave you without saying goodbye.
“I’m… I have… I was… diagnosed…”
I’m sorry…
“I was diagnosed with lung cancer… And I—I…”
For all the things that I’ve done…
“I only have… a few days left…”
It wasn’t supposed to end like this.
With all the thoughts running in his mind, Eijun dared himself to look at Chris.
“Sawamura…” Eijun was wrong. He was wrong about thinking he had cried so much until he couldn’t. He was wrong about thinking he couldn’t cry in front of anyone else after what happened with Miyuki.
He was wrong about thinking Chris wouldn’t care.
“Sawamura—why? Why didn’t you tell me…” he rubbed his temples, either trying to think clearly or hiding his tears, “You could’ve… I could’ve… Did you think I wouldn’t care?”
Eijun didn’t answer. He lowered his head. He’s afraid of looking at Chris in the eye. He knew he was wrong. He knew he should’ve told Chris earlier, he should’ve told Chris the minute he knew he was dying. He should’ve trusted Chris.
“…………Sawamura.” Chris’ strong hands gripped Eijun’s small arms tightly. Eijun realized he was trembling again. "I had baseball taken away from me. I had my abilities taken away from me. I had my dreams, taken away from me. And now..."
Eijun felt blood and tears rushing through his whole body when Chris wrapped his arms around him, for the first time, for the last time, for the longest time. He was sobbing. He buried his head on Eijun's shirt—did he react like this when his shoulder was injured? Or this is just the result of the damage he'd endured for so long, that he buried for so long, and now it's time for him to let it all out. He couldn't bear another loss, and Eijun knew that. He didn't want to go.
"I don't want to go," Eijun said.
"I don't want you to go," replied Chris.
They stayed, holding each other for God knows how long before everything went dark.
Eijun's death was something none of the people he knew predicted. The ex-pitcher didn't look like he was in pain, with his eyes closed and tightly pursed lips. He had one more day to live, and just one more pill to take, but it was too late to scold him for forgetting to take them now.
The night he told Chris, after he spoke his last words—I don't want to go—Chris held him long. He wanted to spend the remaining time Eijun had; he wanted to be the last thing Eijun saw.
"Do you want to spend tomorrow with me?" he remembered asking. "I could—I could catch your pitch. If you want to. If you're not too tired. Or maybe we can visit your family in... Sawamura?"
He remembered how cold Sawamura's body felt, how heavy he suddenly became. How stiff and pale he looked. He remembered saying something; he knew his mouth was moving, but he didn't know what he was saying. He remembered Sawamura's cold fingers when he held him for the last time before the other students arrived. He must have screamed. He must have broken loose. He must've tried to release himself from the others' grip, just to hold him for the last fucking time.
His funeral was attended by many. This didn't surprise Chris. Sawamura Eijun was a young boy who inspired the people he know—no, knew. That is death. Shifting from is, to was, and shifting from know, to knew.
He told Sawamura's parents that he was a light for the baseball club. Sawamura's mother smiled sadly, telling him their son had told a lot about the man before them. Sawamura's mother told him that her son loved him. Chris smiled. He didn't tell her how her son brought life back to his eyes. He didn't tell her how her son saved him and guided him through his darkest moments.
He left the funeral early. He wondered if Eijun would scold him for that.
A few months after Eijun's death, Haruichi Kominato was discharged from the team. It was after a practice game with a neighboring team when Furuya heard the sound of a glass breaking nearby. They rushed to find the door to Sawamura's former room wide open. Haruichi was in there, with blood all flowing from his wrists and a glass shard on his other hand. He couldn't take it. He later died from blood loss. He broke his promise.
Chris wondered if the team could cope with the loss of not one, but two former first-strings. He wondered if they could handle it physically and mentally. Seidou started losing more games and many of the players lost focus; even Miyuki couldn't catch as well as he used to. By the time he graduated, they had lost a decisive game and didn't make it to the Nationals. Eijun would've been disappointed. He would've cried and blamed himself.
Even though he didn't promise Eijun anything, he would stay. He wouldn't try to follow him. He would wait. He would wait until it was his time.
He knew Eijun was waiting for him on the other side.