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Every morning for the past week, Furuya Satoru has awakened with an upset stomach and little drive to push through the day. After breakfast and some warm up throws with Yui, it usually goes away. That is, of course, until this particular day when that pain lingers throughout.
Bidding farewell to the third years when he had been a first year had been hard, but they had been together a handful of months and Furuya had moved on from it with the promise of more baseball with his current teammates.
This time, it is different. He isn’t just saying goodbye to another batch of upperclassmen; he is parting ways with him. To Furuya, there has only ever been one Him. Tall but not very, broad-shouldered and rock solid from head to toe, hat on backwards even when it didn’t need to be, and glasses he always has to push back up his nose after he laughs.
It is time for Miyuki Kazuya to graduate, and he will be taking a chunk of Furuya with him. Furuya still hasn’t processed the fact outside of an omnipresent cloud of apathy. His teachers don’t notice, as he is inattentive in class on the best days, but his friends do.
Kanemaru notices Furuya staring at the table next to his bowl with a tight smile and a clap on the shoulder. Yui carries a baseball with him everywhere, even to class, hoping to flash it in the halls and lift Furuya’s spirits. Sawamura plies him with gibberish pep talks. Toujou offers to help him with his homework so he doesn’t fail classes while he sulks. Kominato sits with him in silence so he doesn’t have to brood alone.
The effort alone does lift Furuya’s spirits, but when he turns away, it all comes back.
Miyuki is many things to Furuya. He’s the best catcher he has ever known, and he’s convinced that will continue to be true even after he ventures into the realm of professional baseball. He knows Furuya’s moods and his spirit and knows just what to ask for to get the most out of it.
More than that, though, Miyuki is the first and only person Furuya has ever been in love with. Furuya can get over having a different catcher with a different temperament, but try as he might, it has proven impossible to expel that dread brewing in his gut at the thought of seeing that love wither and die in the wake of Miyuki’s path away from Seidou.
It’s that churning discomfort that finds Furuya holed up in the indoor practice facility, sitting cross-legged against the wall with his eyes closed, desperate for his mind to take him somewhere — anywhere — else.
The door creaks open and Furuya nearly orders whoever is disturbing him away, but the words never make it out of his throat when he sees who it is.
Miyuki sits down next to him, shoulder to shoulder despite the vast amount of available space, and Furuya squelches the urge to jerk away. On one hand, it’s a reminder that he will never be anything to Miyuki but another pitcher. However, he can soak in that brief sliver of contact as long as he can,remember it when he looks back at his fractured ability to communicate and regrets.
“I almost missed you,” Miyuki said, arms draped lazily in his lap. “I didn’t see you at the ceremony.”
“I —” Furuya doesn’t know how to answer without sounding like an ass or just plain pathetic, so he settles on a simple, “Sorry, Miyuki-senpai.”
A chuckle bubbles out of Miyuki. “I’m not your babysitter. You can do whatever you want. I was just surprised you weren’t there.” He sighs and leans forward, elbows on his thighs and chin in his palms. “Well, not surprised. I figured you fell asleep somewhere because you were bored. Instead, I find you hiding in here.”
There is an edge of something hard in Miyuki’s voice. After years of trying and failing to understand people around him, Furuya can identify that sharp vein in Miyuki’s words as hurt. It doesn’t happen often, and Miyuki lets others see it even less, but Furuya hiding in a barn instead of offering his best wishes to his favorite person in the world before parting ways has wounded Miyuki in some fashion.
People who don’t understand Miyuki might say it’s impossible to hurt someone with as shitty a personality as Miyuki, but Furuya knows better because he has seen it in himself often enough. More than anything, it aches even more because he hadn’t meant to injure. That always feels worse than being hurt himself.
A tear slips down Furuya’s cheek, and Miyuki gawks at him. “Are you okay?”
“No,” Furuya admits. “I couldn’t go. I didn’t want to see you leave.”
Miyuki hums, eyes glued to Furuya’s sullen face. “Anything you want to talk about?” Furuya shakes his head. “Anything you need to talk about?”
Why does he have to phrase it like that?
“I want something from you that I can’t have.” Furuya draws in a shuddering breath. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Ah.” Both of them stare into the vast expanse of the building, at the pitching nets nested along the far wall alongside dozens of crates of balls. It’s a long, solemn minute before Miyuki asks, “Well, if you don’t know what you should do, then what do you want to do?”
Furuya’s eyes widen. On the baseball field, Furuya is accustomed to going for what he wants. Whether it’s hitting a home run or pitching a complete game or being the ace, the knowledge that these things are attainable for him, they enable him to work toward them.
How does he say that Miyuki is the one thing Furuya can never have and ever be able to look Miyuki in the eye?
He can’t, so he doesn’t. Instead, he turns to Miyuki and rests an unsteady hand along the line of Miyuki’s jaw. Miyuki freezes, but he doesn’t move away. Instead, his eyes drift down to Furuya’s lips as they approach his own.
Furuya has never kissed anyone before, aside from a few old grannies pecking him on the cheek with their withered mouths. The two are nothing alike. While the latter elicits a shudder of dread from Furuya, this light brush of lips makes him a little dizzy, a little queasy, but not in a bad way.
When Furuya ends the kiss, stolen but just as treasured as his first game as a pitcher or his first flight to Tokyo as a Seidou student, he keeps his eyes closed and his forehead rested against Miyuki’s. The moment is at an end, but he clings to it because he has to. It isn’t just what he wants; it’s what he needs.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Miyuki murmurs, still making no signs of escaping Furuya’s touch. “I didn’t know.”
“Would it have changed the way you feel about me? Would it have made you happier?”
Miyuki doesn’t reply because he doesn’t have to. Furuya already knows the answer.
“I’m sorry, Satoru.” Furuya’s given name is a foreign sound coming from Miyuki, but it still serves to turn his stomach. “I don’t know how to be what you need from me.”
Furuya presses his finger to Miyuki’s lips. “You’ve always been what I needed. I just could never be that for you, no matter how much I wished I could.”
“Yeah,” Miyuki whispers.
The jokes Furuya usually expects from Miyuki in the midst of a serious situation don’t come. Instead, the two of them stay in the shadows of the indoor practice area, which is abandoned in lieu of the graduation festivities.
Here and there, Miyuki will lean in to press his lips to Furuya’s, withdrawing afterward with that same look he gets when he’s poring over videos and stat books, trying to find the missing piece of the puzzle for their game plan. With his clenched jaw and furrowed brows, Furuya reckons he hasn’t found it.
The setting evening sun blares through the west-facing windows before Miyuki peels himself off the floor and stretches his limbs with a yawn. “I keep thinking I can go to bed before Sawamura finds me and badgers me to catch for him, but I don’t live here anymore.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever stop thinking of this place as home,” Furuya says while he accepts Miyuki’s proffered hand to pull him to his feet.
Miyuki chuckles. “Never said it wasn’t home.” His smile lingers, and so does his grip on Furuya’s hand. “I don’t suppose I could con you into helping me move out, could I?”
It’s close to sunset, and the promise of lower temperatures makes it an easy, “Yes,” for Furuya. This time, their quiet work together is as easy and companionable like the pall of imminent parting doesn’t hang over them.
When Miyuki’s belongings are safely deposited at his father’s house and the tray of sushi in the fridge is consumed, Furuya stirs up the mettle to give Miyuki the farewell he deserves.
Bowing low, Furuya says, “Thank you for the best two years of my life, Miyuki-senpai. I’ll never forget you.”
“And I’ll always remember you.” When Furuya straightens, Miyuki offers a handshake. “Promise me something, eh, Furuya?” Furuya nods. “Keep your fastballs lower, will ya?”
Furuya snorts, and they’re both smiling as Furuya answers, “I’ll try. For you.”
“Good.” He turns Furuya around toward the door and swats his behind. “Now, get out of here before this gets embarrassing.”
“Yes, senpai.” With that, Furuya steps out into the rapidly cooling March evening.
The trip back to Seidou is longer and lonelier than ever, but Furuya forces himself to sit up straight and stare at the seat back in front of him until his stop is called. He is more inclined to throw up or cry, but Miyuki’s last request for him isn’t only about baseball.
It’s a plea to find someone who fits together with him in every way, someone who can reciprocate just as much. Furuya hasn’t changed his mind that Miyuki will always be that person for him; however, years of hard-earned trust and respect chime in, reminding him that Miyuki has always understood things Furuya does not, and maybe the best truly is yet to come.