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You grow up with an absent father, a photo of your dead mother, and no friends to speak of. Loneliness seeps through the cracks in your skin until it reaches the marrow of your bones, fusing with every fiber of your being until you can't tell one from the other. You become the boy in the mask, the boy with polished fake smiles and poisonous sarcasm.
This is who you are.
(This is who you think you are)
Everything that doesn't come natural to you (and let's be honest here—most things do, you are not called a genius for nothing), you learn. The more you know, the better you are. And the better you are, the bigger your chances of coming on top of the situation. You like things to go your way.
You don't like to lose.
(You've lost so much already)
“Spit it out,” you say, blunt as always. There's no need to sugarcoat your words. You never did before, even despite the bullies and the beatings and the blood dripping dripping dripping into the bathroom sink. You are not sugarcoating your words now, not for him, not for anybody.
Sawamura is looking at his sneakers, the original bright color fading after months of abuse, of running in circles, of chasing a dream that he never seems to seize.
You hide your hands in your pockets, carelessly leaning on the wall of the club meeting room. Late afternoon light filters through the windows and outlines Sawamura's silhouette in beautiful orange. He looks angry, or at least you think he looks angry, body tense and taut, scowl in place, eyes hooded.
“I don't have all day,” you insist. You love pushing people around, love watching them lose their temper. Especially Sawamura. He always takes the bait, screaming at the top of his lungs. He never disappoints and you feel an ugly kind of satisfaction pool low in your belly. He's like a ball of emotion for you to personally play with.
(You never claimed to be a saint, all big words and nasty personality. Everybody knows about it. You don't particularly care.)
You look at him, at the way his hands turn into fists, probably thinking about hitting you, about breaking your nose. Well, it's nothing new. You smile, that big shit-eating grin that leaves people reeling. You would laugh at Sawamura's expression, but you are trying to get him to talk, and laughing would be counterproductive, so you don't. You save it for later, for when you are alone and in need of a break from the responsibilities piling up on top of your shoulders.
He seems to be struggling. You decide to give him a final push.
“Come on, Sawamura,” you say, trying to sound honest and caring. “You can tell me. I promise not to get mad.”
(If Chris were here, he would scold you for playing with the other boy like this, for being a condescending little shit. But Chris isn't here anymore.)
He takes a deep breath and you know you've won. You always do. A white set of teeth dents his lower lip, façade slowly crumbling before your eyes. This is what you secretly live for, this moment of defeat. Another challenge won, another victory. It's really fucked up because this is your teammate, someone who despite everything trusts you, someone who follows your lead. But you are kind of fucked up too, so you don't dwell much on it.
That is, until Sawamura speaks.
You don't hear him at first because he's unusually quiet, his voice a shy whisper in the empty room. He's looking at you from where he stands safely out of reach. His cheeks are burning, eyes bright and huge, and even in his defeat he's challenging you.
“I kind of—like you,” he repeats, louder this time, hands fisted at his sides. You freeze, sarcasm suddenly dead on the tip of your tongue. “I don't even know why, but I like you,” he continues, voice shaking. He looks vulnerable for a moment, before he masks it with a scowl. Embarrassed, he adds, “A lot, actually,” like it's important for you to understand how unwanted those feelings are.
The words sink in one by one, and you stand there like a fool because this is not—what is he even saying.
Your laughter surprises you both. It's a little hysterical, all sharp edges and desperation.
You've gotten confessions before, yes. From girls and on extremely rare occasions, from guys. They always stutter, never look you in the eye, they talk about why they like you, they tell you how cool you are, how handsome, how they love your (fake fake fake) smile. They never say they like you as if it's a curse, as if they want to stop liking you right now. They never look at you shamelessly, eyes burning and teeth bared. Never.
You laugh once more, a defense mechanism.
“Did Kuramochi put you up to this, because I gotta to say—”
The squeaking of sneakers against the floor is the only warning you get. Suddenly, there are calloused hands in your hoodie, bringing you forward. Chapped, dry lips collide with yours like a freight train, relentless. Sawamura kisses like it's a fight, pressing until it hurts, his mouth closed and firm against your own. You feel him warm through your clothes, warm and determined, his scent drowning your senses. You don't kiss back, but Sawamura doesn't let you, either.
“I'm serious,” he breathes against your lips, angry. Furious. “I like you, you fucking asshole.”
His lips tremble and his (bright oh so bright) eyes seem hurt. He takes one step, two steps, three steps, turns around and leaves.
When the door closes behind him, you draw in a breath.
You appreciate challenges. They make your stronger, they keep you entertained. Being entertained is one of the greatest pleasures for someone who gets bored as frequently as you do. You cherish challenges the way normal people cherish their loved ones. They are similar, you think. Both come unexpectedly, both produce a warm feeling at the pit of one's stomach. Both die in the end, temporary little things.
They are similar.
(They are really not)
Sawamura Eijun is a challenge.
He barges into your life with no respect whatsoever. He forces his way with loud words, fresh bruises and colorful eyes, everything is his for the taking. Selfish, greedy, stupid. You are enthralled. And the most amusing thing is he plays right into your hands. You tease and he takes the bait every single time without fail, huge eyes filled with emotion. So easy to read, so easy to manipulate.
And yet.
(And yet—)
The first time you kissed someone, you were fourteen and you did it because it was expected of you. You were starting to get admirers after a painful growth spurt that made you look less short and scrawny, and more teen-like. The girl you kissed told you that she was in love with you, that she would like to go on a date, that she thought you were handsome.
You kissed her to shut her up.
(What did she know about love, anyway.)
Sawamura pitches a cutter into Ono's mitt. It's a good one. He knows it, laughter echoing loud in the bullpen. He's happy about the stupidest things, even those that people take for granted. Every time he pitches it's like he discovers baseball all over again. It's annoying.
Furuya throws a fastball into your mitt, and so you avert your eyes.
“Nice ball,” you tell Furuya, smiling.
He's the ace, you remind yourself. He's the one you should be paying attention to right now.
However, your eyes go back to Sawamura. Kuramochi is scolding him, apparently ignoring he should be running laps and not pestering the pitchers. Sawamura and him bicker, screaming and hitting, not caring about how much they are touching each other.
Furuya pitches another ball and you almost miss it.
“That's great,” you compliment him. “Do ten more with Ono and then go practice your batting.” Furuya looks a little disappointed at pitching so few balls today. Maybe you're spoiling him too much. As an afterthought—“Sawamura, come here!” you yell.
The boy in question scowls at you like you just ruined his birthday party, but switches places with Furuya obediently. Unfortunately for your nerves, Kuramochi follows.
“If you actually learn to pitch a slider, I'll do your laundry for a week,” he laughs wildly, smirk in place and arms crossed. Sawamura looks really done with him.
You huff.
“If he learns to pitch a slider, I will do his laundry for a week,” you say.
Sawamura glares at you with every ounce of hate he has in him. You smile, cheerful. He's not acting any differently. He's not blushing, or stuttering, or spacing out. He looks at you dead on, like he normally does before throwing an unorthodox ball to your mitt.
(He still avoids you after practice, though.)
“Miyuki Kazuya, prepare to be amazed!”
You are not sure why you chose to play baseball. Maybe because you suck at soccer. Maybe because you were too short to play basketball when you were a kid. Maybe because when your father decided to take an unusual day off, he spent it watching games during dinner. He's the one who explained the rules to you, the different players, the different pitches. You took up the rest.
He never came to see you play. You never judged him for it.
One thing you know for sure: your father is not the one who inspired you to play baseball. He has never been the inspiring type to begin with. But you guess he's the one who taught you to take matters into your own hands, to take the lead. To not rely on others to achieve your dreams.
(You can't rely on others. Period.
You guess your father didn't know at the time he was teaching you that particular lesson.)
It's a cold morning, all gray skies and windy weather. Winter is just around the corner, no matter how far the Fall Tournament makes it seem. You suddenly mourn the dead of summer. The third years are gone and you are left to pick up the pieces. Ah, you miss that team. The winner team.
“How is your injury?” someone asks you.
You turn around, hands in your pockets. Kataoka is dressed for morning practice already, even if it's still too early to actually be awake.
You grin.
“Got cleared by the doctor,” you say. You almost add a victory sign just for show.
Your coach isn't impressed. He probably already knew. Then again he never shows his emotions, so you deal with what you've got. He stops beside you, watching the baseball field. You do the same. The early sunlight is barely peeking through the clouds, but you can clearly see the figure running laps around the field.
He's so relentless it's annoying. There's no tire dragging behind him at least, and you thank whatever deity is trendy nowadays for small favors.
“You won't be playing the first six innings in our next game,” Kataoka says all of a sudden.
You try not to tense up, you try to play it cool. You try to pretend you saw it coming.
(You are not sure you pull it off.)
“Because of my injury?” you ask, fixing your eyes on Sawamura so as to not give in and look at your coach. He's making you a favor here, to be honest. No matter how much it breaks you.
“Because you hid your injury,” Kataoka corrects, showing no mercy. “Consider it a learning experience.”
Sawamura stops running and sits on the ground to stretch. Maybe you should give him a hand with that, he might pull a muscle.
“It won't happen again,” you say. Kataoka grunts in acknowledgment. You know your penalty still stands, but at least it will be a one time thing. You won't hold a grudge, not when you know it's for your own good.
(You are taking them all to Koushien, no matter what.)
“Make sure that idiot has breakfast,” Kataoka says before leaving. You sigh, thinking about how hard Furuya will have to train with Ono until the next game.
Sawamura is one flexible, scrawny thing. You see him bend over his left leg, hand grasping the sole of his sneaker, the same he confessed to you in. His hair is sweaty and his cheeks are pink from the exertion.
“Are you done yet? 'Cause I'm terribly hungry.”
Sawamura turns around to look at you, the surprise quickly turning into dread. You give him your biggest smile.
You are not sure why Sawamura chose to play baseball. You don't really care. What you do care about is why he continued to play. Rei has told you countless times that nobody would successfully catch his pitch. At least not his good pitch, the one he throws with everything he's got, the one that batters are unable to see. The one he threw at you a year ago, and had you excited for a whole month.
You would ask him, but he would probably look at you with those big, confused eyes of his, and answer the most infuriating thing. Because it's fun, or because it feels great, or a very Sawamura-like because I like it.
You play baseball because you are in charge, because you are important. Because you are irreplaceable.
Sawamura strikes Kuramochi and Shirasu out at an in-team game, and everybody claps him in the back. The reserves are not giving up an inch, and you know it's because of that loud, annoying pitcher right there. He's the spirit of the team, he's the beating heart.
He's not the ace, and if Ochiai becomes the new coach, he will never be.
But—but as he gets in the dugout, you can almost see it. Those scrawny shoulder wearing the ace number and taking his team to victory.
Furuya pitches right into Ono's mitt. His sprained foot seems to be doing okay, and you know Kataoka will make him play in the next game. The team is going to need the ace if they want to make it to Koushien's finals.
Nori is not doing bad himself. His slider seems to be gaining speed and if that makes him more confident, then you guess you'll make him practice that pitch until he feels like the king of the world.
What you are really worried about is Ono. His game calling is boring and predictable. Furuya may be a genius, but his talent alone won't be enough to strike out rival batters. Especially if he needs someone to guide him when he's tired and his speed drops.
(Not being able to play makes you itch.)
A booming laughter echoes through the field, and your eyes deviate from Furuya's pitching to batting practice.
“Oh god, you didn't even see it coming!” Sawamura laughs, clutching at his stomach. On the other side of the protective screen, Kanemaru is dropping his bat, probably to go hit him. You glance at Kataoka, who's giving Ono and Furuya different tips, and decide to join in the fun.
When you reach them, Sawamura is using the protective screen to actually escape Kanemaru's wrath, trying to both apologize and stop laughing at the same time. He's obviously failing. Stifling a snicker of your own, you grab him by the back of his uniform and keep him in place, watching him struggle.
“You seem to be having a good time,” you sing-song. Kanemaru at least looks apologetic. Cursing, Sawamura tries contorting his body to free himself from your grasp. “Maybe you need something else to do. Like, say, throwing at the net?”
Sawamura's high-pitched whine amuses you to no end.
“Not the net! The net is the worst,” he complains, his struggling coming to a stop. You feel him warm against your chest despite the chilly air, and a very different situation comes to mind. You suppress the memory, tempted to push Sawamura as far away as possible. You do let him go in the end, but the little shit turns around and gives you ridiculous puppy eyes. “Please, not the net. Please, Miyuki-senpai.”
You burst out laughing despite yourself.
“You know you are not starting tomorrow, right?” you chastise him because he has to stop behaving like a petulant child.
Sawamura blinks, endearingly confused.
“But Kanemaru is,” he answers, his expression honest. And that—that gets your full attention.
Kanemaru is apologizing as soon as he's mentioned, but you are not listening to him. Of course Sawamura would do this for the team. Of course he would throw his training regime out the window for his friend.
(You remember that time he tried to learn sidearm pitching just to help his teammates practice, that time he almost broke his form just to lend a hand, just to be useful. Your chest still feels tight when you recall how empty he was. How Ochiai manipulated him. How he thought he wasn't worth a thing after that deadball against Inashiro. After you and Kataoka made him pitch against Yakushi again, and again, and again until he fell apart on the mound.
And there's an ugly feeling at the back of your throat when you think about how you didn't get to put him back together, how it wasn't you who made his eyes shine again, but instead—
God, why would he even like you?)
“Okay,” you say with an irritated sigh, and Kanemaru shuts up. “Fifteen more pitches, but that's it.”
Sawamura's grin is as bright as the sun.
What gets on your nerves—what really, really gets on your nerves—is that he doesn't treat you any differently in public. He snaps at you, he screams at you, he shakes you by the collar of your shirt, he even snickers alongside you when you both plan a mean pitch to strike a batter out.
He's not flustered when you throw an arm around his shoulders, or when you stand too close. Or when you whisper encouragement in his ear. You are obviously doing it on purpose. You are not really a touchy feely kind of guy under normal circumstances. You are toying with him and even Zono figures out that there's something going on. But Sawamura? He doesn't react. Not the way you want him too.
You wonder if he was lying. If it was all a joke. If he was just bluffing so that you'll leave him alone.
You start to get paranoid and that's the problem. You have never let anyone in before. You are the boy in the mask, both on the field and out of it. You hide under layers and layers of sarcasm and manipulation, and you feel safe that way.
But then this stupid (stupid stupid stupid) brat comes along and gets under your skin with a poor confession, not giving you a chance to say no. To say yes. To say anything. He walks in, tells you he likes you, and doesn't expect you to do anything. He doesn't tell you to stop touching him or to stop teasing him. He doesn't even take advantage of you touching or teasing him.
And yet—
And yet he avoids you like the plague off the field, like he doesn't want to see your face ever again.
He doesn't act the way you expect him to, not this time, and that is driving you crazy.
There's a knock on your door as you're examining the skin over your ribs. There's no mark there, and the pain is long gone. But you've learned that not all scars are visible, not all of them mar skin in both beautiful and ugly shapes. You know a thing or two about scars, yes. You wear them like the best kept secret.
“It's open,” you say while putting a t-shirt on.
Sawamura peers inside, a file under his arm. He excuses himself and comes in, standing stiffly in the small genkan. He seems uncomfortable, nervously fidgeting with the strings of his sweatshirt.
“Nabe-senpai said to give you this,” he explains, voice too loud. He extends the file and waits for you to take it.
He seems in a hurry.
You smirk.
“Why does he get an honorific and I don't?” you pout, sitting on your bed and completely ignoring Sawamura's extended hand. “You are hurting my feelings here.”
The boy scowls and shakes the file.
“Because he's nice and you're not,” he barks. “Come on, I don't have all day!”
You fake a frown.
“Somewhere you need to be?”
Sawamura looks you dead in the eye for a moment. Your heart skips a beat because that huge stare seems thoughtful for a moment, analyzing you, trying to break through your mask. Sawamura appears to be searching for something, something you don't want to give away, something you don't even know if you want to give away. The boy mouth parts as if to speak, lips wet and shiny (and your skin breaks into goosebumps when you feel the sudden urge to—), but he changes his mind.
He leaves the file on the floor and turns around.
“Whatever.”
It's the second time he abandons you in an empty room, lost and confused.
Kuramochi corners you after dinner.
“Sawamura,” he says and you know you aren't going to like this. “There's something wrong with him.”
You understand the meaning behind those words (what did you do), but choose to play dumb. It's always a safe bet.
“What do you mean, wrong?”
Kuramochi is observant and that makes him dangerous. You are quite talented (a genius) at hiding your emotions, but sometimes he's able to pinpoint the only flaw in your façade and exploit it, destroying all your efforts. It makes you uncomfortable. Of course, if he can read you, then Sawamura must be anything but a challenge.
He yawns, scratching his neck.
“He seems... gloomy.”
Kuramochi glances at you from the corner of his eye. You know what he's expecting, but you refuse. You refuse to play by his rules, by anyone else's rules.
“Have you been bullying him more than usual?” you ask, wistful. “Because if all that wrestling makes him pitch badly—”
“Fix it,” he interrupts, annoyed.
You have to give it to him; he's good.
Kuramochi strolls to his room without further word, leaving you alone in front of the vending machine to swallow around your anger.
(You are not responsible for Sawamura.
You are not responsible for anyone.)
You remember being ten and getting the beating of your life. You don't care about age, and you don't care about tact, and this gives you more trouble than you expect. You are not likable, despite the pretty smile you flash at your elders. You do not want to be likable. You have to be coldblooded. You have to be aggressive.
(You have to endure several blows to your chest, a couple of kicks to your legs, and a broken nose that won't stop bleeding. You are ten, you are the king of baseball defense, and you are bleeding in an empty bathroom.)
You pick yourself up, you go home, you bathe.
You go back.
And repeat.
Sawamura is always noisy. Always. Kuramochi says he even sleep-talks sometimes, mumbling in formal Japanese about ancient battles and samurai codes.
(He also cries when people shatter his dreams.)
But when he's in the communal tub, soaking in hot water, he's silent and pliant. His muscles relax and his voice goes down to a pleasant hum. He looks so loose you fear one day he will sink and drown. It's a good thing he usually takes quick showers before dashing back to his room.
This time is not like that. This time you find him alone, back against the tiles and knees bent, basking in the water. He doesn't see you, so you take advantage. You soap and you rinse your body as silently as you can, before stumbling your way into the tub.
You sit right next to him, feeling how he stiffens.
“What are you doing?!” he croaks.
“Taking a bath,” you grin.
It's a pity you can't see his face clearly without your glasses, but you know his expressions enough to imagine how he looks like now. Probably flustered.
“You are—too close,” he mumbles.
Sawamura tries to move away. You follow. Throwing an arm over his wet shoulders, you trap him where he sits.
It's a little bit cruel.
(Or a lot.
You don't care.)
“So, about practice today,” you start. Kuramochi will kill you. This has to be the opposite of fixing things. “Your control sucked as always, but you may learn that slider after all.”
Sawamura is quiet as a mouse next to you, which is unsettling. You press your side against him, looking for a reaction, looking for—you don't even know what you are looking for, but the skin on skin contact makes the temperature rise until you feel lightheaded.
(You wonder if he's hard. He's a teenage boy like yourself, so he probably is.
And maybe—maybe—you are too.
Oh, isn't it funny.)
“I was thinking that with more training, you might be able to throw a slider in our next game,” you continue, spreading your legs a little, water lapping at your inner thighs. Steam makes everything blurrier, more asphyxiating. It's getting to your head. “You have a knack for managing these things overnight, anyway.”
Your thumb slides against Sawamura's naked shoulder in a light caress. Once, twice—
“Stop!” the voice comes, slightly angry. You picture his face, blushed and embarrassed. You want your glasses, you want to see him. He clears his throat. “Please, just stop.”
You lean your head against him, your lips against his ear.
“I thought this is what you wanted,” you whisper, a low and mean thing.
You are just playing.
(You are just playing, right?)
He's a little ball of lean muscle and bony shoulders against your body. You feel warmth pooling at your gut, but not the pleasant kind. This one seems more like—
“Not like this,” Sawamura says.
(—guilt.)
You inhale sharply.
“Okay,” you answer, void of emotion. “Your loss.”
You let him go.
Maybe you should be the one to sink and drown.
You tell yourself you can identify four emotions. You tell yourself that's the extent of your knowledge concerning feelings. You tell yourself that they weren't necessary before, so you didn't bother with them.
You know boredom. It's your default emotion. The one that itches under your skin, the one that makes you be distant and mean. The one you can't stand.
You also know excitement. Baseball, a good pitch, a strong enemy. Inashiro. Chris. This emotion keeps you going, gives you purpose. It's your favorite.
You've met fury on several occasions. It's always a cold and thorny flower that blooms inside your ribcage, right over your heart and lungs. You don't feel it often and that's good. It's a self-destructive little thing that only means you are not getting your way.
You've tasted disappointment.
You don't think about it.
(You lied.
You know six emotions. The fifth one is hate, but it's related to disappointment, so it doesn't really count. Number six is a thing you don't want to put a name to. It's sweet. It's annoying. You want it gone.
Loneliness no longer qualifies as an emotion because it's already part of who you are.)
You tell yourself you can identify four emotions.
Sawamura Eijun seems determined to teach you a whole set of new ones.
Kuramochi slaps you accidentally-on-purpose with his empty tray at breakfast. You don't have to ask him why.
You find him at night. The indoor practice ground's lights are on, the smacking sound of a baseball against the net giving him away. You watch him from the door, his body perfectly balanced on one leg, joints flexing easily before releasing the ball.
At first people think his form is all over the place, unlike Furuya who pitches with a very orthodox form and brutal speed. You know better. Sawamura chooses where to throw, and as long as the ball hits your mitt, he doesn't care about how he looks. His body just complies and it's an absolute wonder to see.
“You should be asleep,” you call after him.
Sawamura turns around, blushing at being caught. You then see recognition dawn on his eyes, and he scowls.
“So should you!” he barks, annoyed.
Oh, boy. He's so fun.
You walk in, glancing at the scattered balls around the net. He's overdoing it again, stupid brat that he is.
“Apparently, I'm on babysitting duty.”
He looks at you, confused for a moment, and then—“What?! I don't need a babysitter!”
You snicker.
“Yes, you do,” you grin. “Stupid pitchers need constant supervision.”
Sawamura sputters adorably.
“I'm not stupid! You are stupid!”
It's like talking with a three-year-old. A very stubborn, very talented three-year-old who is actually right. You are stupid. You are cruel, and mean, and you are stupid because you are here to apologize, but you don't know how.
(Maybe you need a babysitter as well.)
“You know,” you start, burying your hands in your pockets, “I might let this slide if...”
You trail off. Sawamura looks wary. You don't blame him.
“If?” he prompts.
God, why is it so difficult? Why is everything so difficult with this boy? Why can't he just be—
“If you forget what happened. In the bath,” you adjust your glasses. “The other day.”
Sawamura blinks a couple of times, his huge eyes looking as innocent as a child's. It's mesmerizing, watching these expressions on his face. It's mesmerizing watching him, always surprising you, always living up to your expectations for better or worse. You wonder when you will stop underestimating him, when you will learn not to think less of him just because he's not like you.
Sawamura crosses his arms against his chest.
“That is the worst apology ever, Miyuki Kazuya,” he complains.
You give him a sheepish smile.
(He's gonna bring you down.
He's gonna bring you down hard.)
“Okay,” he finally says. There's something mischievous in his voice, something that makes you cringe. “You want me to forget that really lame move on your part? Play catch with me.”
Of course.
“Wha—right now?”
He smiles brightly.
“Come on! It's getting late and we should be asleep, right?”
He's so stupid.
(Stop lying to yourself. He has already brought you down.
And you—you just—)
You read once that human's instincts are unable to comprehend cute things, that the need to squish, hug, and crush (to kill) those things is because humans don't know how to react to adorable situations, stuff. People.
Sawamura gets this bright, happy look when he's talking about home, about his parents, about his grandfather. Even when he talks about his childhood friends he seems far away, revisiting private memories. He should look stupid with that spaced out stare.
He doesn't.
He doesn't look stupid when he screams encouragement, when he hugs Kominato, or pats Furuya, or fist-bumps Nori. When he smiles up on the mound after a good pitch. When he subconsciously uses his right hand instead of his left for inane things such as holding a pair of scissors, or using Kuramochi's controller just because the world is not made for left-handed people.
He should look stupid, but he doesn't.
You think the right word for it would be cute.
That would explain the heavy, torturing need to smother him in your arms.
It pisses you off when he doesn't listen to you. He's running laps again, even if you told him not to overdo it because you have a game tomorrow. You don't care how much stamina he has, this is getting out of hand.
He's ridiculous. You are gonna break his face.
“What do you think you're doing, Sawamura?!” you yell after him, watching him come to a stop.
He's breathing harshly, each gasp condensing before his eyes.
“I couldn't stay still,” he shrugs, “so I went for a run.”
He's a fucking moron. You won't let him pitch ever again.
“I thought I told you not to overdo it,” you grunt, an ugly, shapeless expression pulling at your lips. You feel like breaking something. His nose, for example. “Seriously, what's wrong with you?”
Sawamura scowls, opening his mouth to retort. Oh, and you know beforehand it's going to piss you off.
“You are not my mother.”
He turns his back on you. He turns his back on—you are going to murder him. You see red (and you don't know why, it's not the first time he does this) and grab the back of his sweatshirt. He stumbles with a gasp, and you push push push him until his back hits the chain-link fence. You corner him, trying to tower over his body with all the rage you feel inside.
This is what he does to you. How dares he.
“Let me explain one thing to you, Sawamura,” you hiss, wishing for a ball to throw at him with all your strength because apparently pitching is the only thing he understands, stupid selfish brat. His eyes harden, challenging you to pick a fight with him and oh, yes. If it's a fight he wants, he's going to get it. You are fucking tired of his stupidity, so he's in for the fight of his life. “I am your captain. I'm the one who can easily convince the coach to bench you. If I tell you to do something, you do it.”
Your fingers close around the fence on both sides of Sawamura's head. You are going to pierce through that thick skull of his by any means necessary.
And here it is, the challenge you always long for. Despite not having where to go, Sawamura is not backing off. He leans forward, his breathing warm against yours. Yes, this is what you want. You want him to bare his teeth at you, you want him to push you back, to scream, to lose it.
(This is what he does to you.)
“If I tell you to jump, what do you say?” you smirk, hot under your collar.
He wets his lips and you follow the movement with your eyes, that twisted feeling you hate hate hate warming your muscles, tickling your fingertips. Sawamura's eyes are huge and so bright, so alive.
(You want—oh, god.
You want.)
“Go fuck yourself,” he hisses, grabbing you by the front of your hoodie. “It was just a quick run!”
You laugh, low and ugly.
“That's not the issue, you stupid brat,” you bite back. You are so close you can see faint freckles on the bridge of his nose. “I don't tell you these things because I want to mess with you, dammit. As my pitcher you should—”
He pushes you.
Hard.
Your hands let go of the fence, and you almost lose your footing. You manage to stay upright by sheer force of will, anger boiling inside you like burning oil. You pull your arm back, about to throw a punch and—you freeze.
Sawamura's face is hurt, blush in place and eyes glossy. Always wearing his heart on his sleeve.
“Don't say that,” he mutters. All of your smart words die in your mouth. He rubs at his face, shaking the wet strands of his fringe from his eyes. “Don't say it like that,” he repeats. “You are the catcher of this team, and I'm just one of the pitchers. Shit, I'm not even a starter yet.” His voice breaks, your chest tightens. “So don't say—don't you dare say something like that, you asshole!”
Your arms drop at your sides, trying to understand the words falling from his pretty full lips.
“What—”
Sawamura stares at his sneakers for a moment, before looking you straight in the eye.
(This is what he does to you, Kazuya.)
“I'm not your pitcher!” he yells, breaking like a dam, confessions pouring like water. “So don't say it like that! Stop making me feel like that! I'm—I'm not yours and—”
You can't breathe.
He covers his face with his hands and muffles an angry sound. His fingers part and he glares at you.
(—you are not mine.)
(He seeps through the cracks in your skin until he reaches the marrow of your bones, fusing with every fiber of your being until you can't tell him from you.)
He leaves.
You don't stop him.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck.
Life broke you a long time ago and the pieces mended in the wrong way, leaving you twisted and ugly inside. You are a mess, you are emotionally stunted. You are the best kept secret because you are scared of getting hurt again. The less they know about you, the better. You don't want to feel pain and you don't want to feel pity. You don't want to lose. You won't lose.
But you are losing this one, aren't you?
You are losing those bright eyes and sunny smile.
“Ono, you are in,” Kataoka says and you freeze, gloved hands holding your helmet.
The whole dugout looks at Ono who has just finished warming up in the bullpen. Everyone is taken aback, you especially. There's a question at the tip of your tongue, bitter and childish (what did I do wrong) that never leaves your mouth.
Ono makes sure of that.
“But—Miyuki's condition is perfect, I don't see why—”
You are the captain of this team. You are playing at Koushien. You are three innings away from the finals and you know you should be out there, not Ono. However, this is Kataoka. This is Seidou. And you may not play by other people's rules, but this is Seidou.
You grin at Ono, showing even white teeth.
“We are winning, Ono,” you say, taking off your gloves. “Go have some fun!”
Kataoka looks at you. You forced him to stay, you did everything to put off his resignation. This is one of the few people you trust, this is your coach. He nods at you (well done, captain) and you swallow your complaints.
Seidou is the team you are part of.
(This is who you are.)
“Quickly, Ono, don't make me regret this,” Kataoka grunts. Ono nods, yelling into the air as he sets foot on the field. You watch him go, and you almost miss what your coach says next. “Sawamura, get on that mound and finish it.”
“Yes, Boss!”
A female voice rings through the stadium announcing the player changes. From the dugout, the team shouts encouragements.
Sawamura is smiling, cocky and sure.
It happens during the last inning.
Ono makes a sign. Sawamura shakes it off.
You hold your breath because Ono's game-calling is still unimaginative and Sawamura's pitches are easy to hit, not powerful enough yet. But this is the first time Sawamura has refused to pitch a ball so stubbornly.
This wouldn't happen if it were you. Not now, not at the end. Not defending for the privilege of a next round. A final round.
The team is screaming at them, telling them to take it easy, to trust the fielders. But you can see Sawamura, you can see he's not nervous. You can see he trusts his teammates with his life. Ono calls for a time out, running to the mound. Sawamura covers his mouth with his mitt and his eyes are shining.
Kuramochi kicks him in his weirdly reassuring way, but Sawamura holds his ground.
A couple of seconds tick by, and they all leave the mound to Number #18, to the relief pitcher, to the reserve player. And then you see it, the way in which he holds his shoulders, how at ease he looks on that mound, how his smile makes his team cheer and his enemy tremble. He's the leader now.
(He's the ace.)
Last batter. A strike, a foul, a ball. You want to be there, you need to be there. Ono makes a sign only Sawamura can see. A sign Sawamura has asked for.
There's a pause. And suddenly Sawamura nods, eyes bright.
His body moves beautifully, balanced on one leg, hand coming in late as always, and the ball flies flies flies, falling quickly before—Before it breaks. Before it breaks so suddenly it leaves the stadium blinking, surprised. Before it collides with Ono's mitt like it's a thing of wonder.
That's the ball he asked for. That's the ball you would've asked for.
That's his slider.
That's your slider.
(I'm not yours and you are not mine)
You look at Sawamura, triumphant fist in the air. The umpire is still shouting strike three but Sawamura already knows. You already know.
That's the winning pitch. That's the masterpiece.
That should have been you, catching that ball. That should have been you, watching Sawamura's feral smile after throwing. That should have been you and Sawamura Eijun, claiming Seidou's victory.
(I'm not yours and you are not mine?
Fucking bullshit.)
Possessiveness, jealousy. These are new to you. You haven't been jealous before. Not even of Chris' skills. You've never owned anything except your talent and your sarcasm. You've never wanted to own anything except victory. Why would you even be jealous of Ono?
However, this thing inside you, this warm poison flowing through your veins, this desire is true, is scary, is real. And you are not sure if you're jealous because it wasn't you who seized the victory this time, or because it wasn't you who caught that amazing slider.
(Or maybe because it isn't you the one who's hugging Sawamura on the mound right now.)
He's not in his room when you go looking for him.
“If he comes back, let me know,” you tell a dumbfounded Kuramochi before bolting out the door.
You are going to find him. You are going to shake him by the collar of his t-shirt and demand answers. You are going to push him against a wall and taste the inside of his mouth. Make up for all the lost time, that's what you are going to do. For all those minutes you've wasted trying to convince yourself you didn't care.
Damn him.
(This is what he does to you.
And you're going to let him know.)
He's at the last place you can think of. Truth is you find him by chance, after ruling out the cafeteria, the bullpen, and the indoor grounds. It's like he's avoiding you all over again, except you weren't really looking for him last time.
Sawamura is sitting on the bench of the secondary field, tossing a worn and dirty ball from one hand to the other. He's lost in thought, a lonely bud plugged in his ear, the other hanging from the collar of his sweatshirt. He's humming to the rhythm of whatever song he's listening to.
You have to stop to catch your breath.
“Sawamura,” you call.
He jumps, startled, and turns off his music.
“Shit, don't scare me like that!”
The darkness is on your side when you step closer, stomach in knots and heart like a jackhammer. You try grinning, but it doesn't work. You try coming up with a witty retort, but they all die in the back of your throat.
(This is it. You are absolutely naked and vulnerable.)
“You said you liked me” you start, voice even despite your nerves.
He looks at you, slightly puzzled. The way he scratches the back of his neck, you know he's blushing cherry red.
His lips part. You come closer.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did”
“Why?”
The question flees your mouth without your consent, and it sounds broken, voice dripping with desperation.
Sawamura looks you straight in the eye.
“I'm not sure,” he shrugs, like it's no big deal. “You are pretty mean, to be honest. And you bully me all the time. Oh, and I still haven't forgiven you for stabbing me back on my first day. Actually, I've got a list of—”
“Okay, okay!” you laugh, self-deprecating. “It's just—you are very good at hiding it, that's all.”
Sawamura blinks.
“What are you talking about?,” he says, cheeks burning. “I haven't hidden a single thing since the day I met you.”
He—
He hasn't—
Oh.
(I'm not yours and you are not mine.)
Oh, fuck this.
You grab him by the back of his neck, bringing him closer until you can taste his lips against yours. Chapped, but wet this time. Warm in the chilly air. You inhale sharply through your nose, fingers touching soft, brown hair. You don't close your eyes, so you can see Sawamura's, bright and huge and shocked.
The kiss earns you a shove and a painful punch to the shoulder.
You stagger back, trying not to fall flat on your ass.
“Don't—,” Sawamura breathes.
This brat, this stupid brat—how dares he? Where does he stock all that bravery? How can he be this vulnerable, this weak, this scared of getting hurt and still show you? How can he wear his heart on his sleeve like this? And you, you, you who hide under shields and firewalls of secrets, you who ignore all these emotions at the pit of your stomach, you who pretend that you're in control when you are clearly not—you are such a coward.
(This is who you are.
But you are getting tired of it.)
“Shut up,” you whisper, voice hoarse. Your hands catch in his sweatshirt and you pull him in, kissing him harshly, hearing him struggle. You kiss him two, three, four times, until Sawamura combs a hand through your hair and holds tight, until he's bringing you closer and stealing your air.
You do push him against the wall, his body warm and soft against yours. You do taste the inside of his mouth, tongue following the line of his teeth and drawing circles into his palate. You do tell him how you feel (me too, I like you too, you moron) and you do demand answers (like this, is it good like this—).
And he surges against you like a force of nature, grabbing at your waist, pulling at your hair, sucking on your tongue. He answers (yes, like that, that feels good) and he allows you to touch under his t-shirt, to run your thumbs over his hips and fit your fingers in the spaces between his ribs, leg pushing in-between his until he gasps into the kiss, worked up and hungry. He riles you up and you do the same, burning under your clothes, pressing against Sawamura just to feel good. You want to hear your name falling from his lips, voice broken and gasping. You want his tongue in your mouth and his hands running under your clothes, heavy petting and deep kissing until your toes curl and you're satisfied. Until all your pent-up feelings ease off. Until Sawamura Eijun claims you the same way you claim him.
You don't know how long you stand there, pressed against the wall of the dugout, making out hungrily and whispering broken emotions into warm skin. Fifteen minutes. Thirty. An hour. You don't care.
(You could go on forever.)
When you stop, your lips feel raw and your hair is all over the place, pants tight and pupils blown. You feel happy, and turned on, and scared shitless, but he looks the same as you, so you peck him on the cheek and take a step back.
“Glad we talked that out,” you say, burying your hands in your pockets.
Sawamura blinks, dazed.
“You are so stupid, Miyuki Kazuya.”
You agree. And laugh.
This is who you are:
The captain of Seidou High, genius catcher and clean-up batter. The ever-teasing asshole who will lead his team to victory, who will make them seize Koushien and take the trophy home. The annoying senpai, the one who pries into others' personal affairs without a hint of shame and messes with their heads to his personal amusement.
But this is also who you are:
The guy who has no idea how to handle relationships, but tries anyway. A soft press of shoulders during a bus ride or brave pinkies intertwining when no one can see. Pink, full lips you want to kiss and breaking, unorthodox pitches you want to catch.
Sawamura never asks for things you can't give, and he's uncharacteristically patient with you and your feelings. He's your equal both on and off the field, and for once there's no blood involved in that revelation, but a burning sensation running through your veins.
The feeling is still new and raw under your skin, but you manage. After all, at the end of the day there's a boy on your lap, body warm and welcoming, arms around your neck and a whiny just call me Eijun, dammit against your ear.
You don't like to lose.
It's a good thing he doesn't either.