Chapter Text
"The thing about baseball is that winners aren't whiney little bitches." Kazuya had once said to Kuramochi four years ago as an immature first year.
At the time, he'd meant it in the simplest way possible because in Kazuya's world, there had never been room for anything else. Baseball had never been about luck. Anything else other people said was just them trying to make themselves feel better about not being good enough.
Nevertheless, somewhere in Japan, someone had probably claimed a moment that was never theirs in the first place. Someone who predicted a home run at the right moment and got worshipped for it. Someone who walked into a room at the exact second a run was scored and instantly became their friend group's "lucky charm." Coincidences dressed up as fate and reason.
And yet, despite the thousands of little accidents happening everywhere, it had been the Swallows who pulled out a win last time. At least, that was what everyone liked to say. Lately, Kazuya was starting to think those stupid coincidences were the only reason they'd managed to win anything at all; there was no other explanation for how a team with senpai dumb enough to whine at the coach could possibly come out on top.
"You think mere talent gets you far?" Arakawa spat the word 'talent' like like it was something foul on his tongue. "Tell me that again from the audience."
"...What is that supposed to mean, Coach?"
"It means you're done, kid. Give back your jersey to one of the managers on the way out; you're off the team."
And that was how the afternoon practice ended at the Swallows. On the field in the lingering heat of the setting sun, players gathered around the coach in a semi-circle. Not even a single word about baseball, and someone was already kicked off the team.
"What?! But you can't do that! I've been here for five years since Coach Sakura—"
"And am I Coach Sakura? No. I've been rebuilding this team since two years ago—that man and his philosophies are long gone." He flipped through the papers on his clipboard, uncapping that same red pen Kazuya swore he'd been using since the day he got here. It was a wonder that it still had enough ink to function.
"Today's practice was the last thing I needed to confirm my final decision that the Swallows no longer need you. You treat me and your teammates with disrespect and have nothing to back it up."
"Disrespect? You literally let Miyuki talk shit all the time!"
Oh, here we go again. Kazuya nearly groaned out loud, closing his eyes to hold himself back from rolling them. He didn't like Haruka. In fact, he was fairly certain no one on the team liked him. He was all bark and no bite, with his nose constantly up to the sky, and according to Kuramochi, 'has a stick so far up his ass that he's basically a visual metaphor of a human kebab.'
Kazuya could feel the temperature around Coach Arakawa drop a good ten degrees as he sharply glanced up from his clipboard and finally made eye contact with Haruka. "Miyuki doesn't talk shit, he's just a smartass. And he may be a cocky know-it-all but he can back it up, and he backs it up good. So you can kiss my ass and get the hell out of my sight."
Arakwa may have seemed like an asshole, but in reality he didn't play when it came to his players. In that sense, he was similar to the loyalty and protectiveness of his players like Kataoka was at Seidou.
Kazuya felt the small tug dancing at the corners of his mouth. It felt good to have a respectable adult on your side.
He watched as Haruka ripped his jersey off, throwing it on the grass, before storming off the field, loudly cussing out everyone. It wasn't like he wouldn't have a future. The guy was twenty-five; he'd be fine.
The loud slam of a fence echoed in the distance, and just like that, another player had been dropped.
Kazuya blinked. Ah. So that's it. That was the difference between high school and the pros. He'd been trying to figure it out all year as a rookie in the pro leagues, and only now did it click.
At Seidou, the coaches barked because they believed in you. Here, they barked because they owned you.
Arakawa sighed, running a tattooed hand through his jet black middle-part. He looked over at everyone with a raised brow. "You guys didn't like him either, so stop pretending you're sad."
The tense atmosphere immediately cleared, everyone letting out a few chuckles and mutters along the lines of 'thank god he's gone.'
"Bet you're loving this, huh?" Kuramochi leaned in, nudging him with a grin.
"What, me? I'm mourning. Deeply." Kazuya couldn't help the smirk that crept up his face. "Can't you tell?"
"Mourning, my ass," Kuramochi snorted, shaking his head.
Kazuya let out a low chuckle, gaze still fixed on the field where Haruka's jersey lay abandoned like roadkill. Kazuya had only been in the pro leagues for a year—signed with the Swallows right out of high school—but even then, he knew this guy had dug his own grave the moment he started mouthing off Arakawa at the start of the season.
He half-expected the air to smell a little cleaner now that Haruka was gone. It already felt lighter, he noticed, huffing in amusement when a few teammates whispered jokes under their breath, tension finally bleeding out of the field. The corner of his mouth twitched.
Kazuya glanced toward Arakawa, who was still scribbling something on his clipboard with that damn red pen. Cold bastard. No pep talks, just cut or be cut. And somehow, Kazuya loved it here.
"Alright, settle down. We've got some things to talk about," Arakawa's voice cut through the buzz of half-suppressed laughter, rough and edged like gravel under a boot. The players straightened instinctively.
He wasn't tall, not in the way most coaches were, but he had that kind of presence that made the air lean toward him. Thirty-four, give or take. Jet black hair, sharp jaw, tattoos curling from wrist to elbow like vines someone tried and failed to prune. He talked with his hands, his clipboard tucked under one arm, that goddamn red pen spinning between his fingers.
"Let's be honest," he began, "that was a shit season."
Kazuya wholeheartedly agreed. He'd been here for one year and still hadn't earned the 'main catcher' title. There were two of them on the first string, him and Shinji Kawabata, who played catcher. And even though the coach swapped them out fairly evenly throughout the season, Kazuya could feel that Kawabata was regarded as more of the main catcher.
Not only was that a problem Kazuya still hadn't solved, but the team overall played mediocre this year. Whether that was because the team had just been freshly built and everyone hadn't yet become a true team, or no one had reached their full potential, Kazuya understood that at this rate, forget the Giants, they wouldn't be beating any champions.
"For some damn reason, you idiots still look like you met yesterday. No trust, no rhythm, no sense of playing for the same side. And I'm talking especially to those of you who've been stuck with me since two years ago— you should know better by now," Arakawa continued. "Two years ago, I kicked half this roster out. You remember? You all thought I was out of my mind. I took a team of veterans and replaced them with kids barely out of high school."
Kazuya had still been at Seidou at the time, but he'd heard the stories and had seen the media coverage on it.
"You're young. In your twenties, some of you younger. Prime years." He emphasized the word prime like he was daring someone to waste it. "You know why you're here? Not because of your talent, not because of your skill, not because of your hard work, and definitely not because of how good you are. Sure, it played a role in my decision, but that was not the reason."
He stopped pacing, shoes crunching against the dirt, and fixed his gaze on every single face in the circle. When it landed on Kazuya, he felt hair prickling against the back of his neck, goosebumps crawling along the hot skin of his arms. The late afternoon sun casted long shadows over the field, the sweat on his jersey sticking in uneven patches, but none of it mattered.
Kazuya's chest tightened, a breath catching in his throat, parting his lips without meaning to, like the air itself is trying to tell him something. This thirty-four-year-old man, shorter than him by an inch or two, cussing like a sailor on shore leave, radiated a kind of heat that burned into Kazuya's bones.
"I picked you because you're hungry. And that's what it takes to be one of the greats."
This man was going to turn Kazuya into something formidable. And Kazuya's never been so grateful to have chosen the Swallows.
"Ready to eat, boys?" Arakawa grinned.
No one could help but mirror the challenging smile. Kuramochi, standing next to Kazuya, smirked under his breath. Kazuya rolled his eyes. He loved this cringey shit.
The team collectively yelled a determined "Yes sir!"
"Good." The coach clicked his pen shut. "Because the new season starts in two weeks and in three days we've got the new recruits joining us. Some are real young ones. Talented as hell. Maybe one or two even good enough to hit first string."
That got everyone's attention. A few glances traded, some nervous, some smug.
Kuramochi let out a low whistle under his breath, "Guess the coach's been shopping."
Kazuya hummed noncommittally, eyes fixed on Arakawa. Young, talented recruits. Well, they needed a third baseman now that Haruka was gone. Kazuya also hoped they got a pitcher that had more variety. Takeda, their ace, wasn't bad—in fact he was really good. He was easy to work with, followed instructions, and in general it was enjoyable catching for him. He was your textbook ideal ace pitcher. But that was precisely why Kazuya wanted another pitcher.
No shade towards Takeda, but being an ideal pitcher that made things easy for the catchers also made things easy for the opponents.
Kazuya's sure the coach and Kawabata, his rival catcher, have realized this too, but they're in dire need of a pitcher that no one can predict. A pitcher with so much raw, untapped potential that they could stand against champions like Narumiya Mei and not just survive, but make them sweat.
He could already picture it: someone with a pitch that danced just wrong enough to piss off batters and make catchers earn their paychecks. Someone reckless. Loud.
Someone who didn't know when to shut up.
He inhaled sharply, then forced it out through his nose. No. Not going there. No use thinking about someone like that now. The pros didn't have room for unpredictable idiots with golden arms and zero self-preservation.
Except—if the Hawks found one… if they found him—
Kazuya exhaled again, rougher this time. His hand curled into a fist against his thigh.
Arakawa's voice cut through his thoughts. "This team's almost complete," he said, tone final. "One or two more pieces, and we'll be ready to make every other team in the league choke on our dust."
He paused, scanning their faces one last time before tucking the clipboard under his arm. And with that, he claps once, hard enough to sting the air. "Practice is over. Go home, eat something that's not ramen, and get your heads straight."
Getting his head straight was exactly what Kazuya needed to do.
The circle dissipated as everyone went in different directions to collect their stuff before heading home. Kazuya's eyes found his bag against the wall near the far end of the stadium, black leather scuffed in the corners, metal bat poking out like a stubborn limb. He jogged over, shoes crunching against the gravel dusting the perimeter of the field, the sun low enough to make the grass smell hotter than it had any right to. The air had that weird metallic tang that hung after everyone sweats for hours under the dome lights, even though outside it was cooling down.
He passed by his captain, Ryoto Takahiro, who gave him a friendly, "See ya later, Miyuki." His messy platinum blonde hair, barely held back by the red head band he always wore, bounced with each movement. It looked exactly like what Kuramochi had been going for in middle school, Kazuya mused. He'd seen the pictures and he knew that this was what the boy thought he looked like, but in reality it was just an ugly mop of piss yellow on the boy's head. Kazuya made a note to himself to tease him about that later.
The catcher gave his captain a nod when an iron wall filled his vision. Built like he'd been carved out of stone, eyes sharp as if they saw straight through every bluff, and a jet black buzz that belonged in the military. The other catcher observed him silently for a moment with a stoicness that rivaled even Furuya's. He hated the feeling of being analyzed by his number one competition here, but made special care not to show that, instead putting on a smug smirk that seemed to piss everyone and their fathers off.
Kawabata passed by without a word, a casual nod like he'd just remembered Kazuya existed for the first time all season, before vanishing behind him. Kazuya didn't know if he could ever get himself to like that guy.
When Kazuya finally reached his bag, he bent down, fingers brushing the rough nylon strap, the faint smell of sweat and dust clinging to it like it had a life of its own. He grabbed his water bottle and tipped it back, swallowing greedily, the cold liquid sliding down his throat and briefly washing away the grit of the afternoon sun and the lingering tang of leather and dirt. He screeched the lid back on and tossed it into the bag, the zipper snapping shut with a finality he almost appreciated.
Slung over his shoulder, the bag bounced against his side as he stepped onto the edge of the field where the dirt had hardened into tiny ridges under his cleats.
It was tragically funny how they all lived in the same apartment building, provided by the Tokyo Yakult Swallows management team, and yet none of them walked back together. You'd think living with a team for almost a year, for some two, would make them closer. It worked at Seidou, when boys were just teenagers, but now responsible mature professionals were unable to befriend one another? And maybe it was because it was easier as a stupid teenager to make friends with other stupid teenagers. Maybe it was the freedom that came with being sixteen and seventeen.
Whatever it was, it made Kazuya almost smile at the patheticness of it all. If he hadn't understood what the coach meant by their awkwardness then, he sure understood it now. They were still stuck on "colleagues," everyone clinging to their own little bubble, and perhaps that was what was stopping them from reaching such great heights.
He stepped into the hallways that wind through the dome, empty now, the quiet punctuated by the faint hum of fluorescent lights flickering to life.
The echo of sneakers on the empty hallways snapped Kazuya from his thoughts just as a familiar voice yelled from behind.
"Hey! Asshole! You're not even waiting for me!"
Kazuya smirked without turning, letting the bag swing against his side. "You're late. Again. Typical."
Kuramochi barreled up beside him. "Late? You've been speed-walking since the meeting ended. I've been chasing you through half the damn building!"
Kazuya glanced over, all lazy grin. "Not my fault you run like an old man with those short legs of yours. Sounds like a skill issue to me."
"Old man? You're the one who's nineteen going on forty, you smug dick."
"Big dick, actually," Kazuya hummed.
Kuramochi groaned loud enough to startle an empty wrapper laying on the floor. "Oh, for fuck's sake—don't even start—"
"What? You brought it up." Kazuya's smirk sharpened, hands in his pockets like he had all the time in the world.
"Yeah, remind me never to talk to you again," Kuramochi muttered, but the corner of his mouth twitched anyway.
"And who's gonna cook your food?"
"Asshole."
"Thank you!"
"Not a compliment."
The conversation turned as their steps carried them past the exit tunnel, sunlight bleeding in orange and rose through the opening doors, hitting the polished concrete like molten metal. The air smelled of freshly cut grass, asphalt, and the faint metallic tang of the Tokyo practice field. Spring carried it all—the crisp scent of blooming cherry trees mingled with the faint exhaust of passing cars, the streets alive with the hum of evening commuters.
Kuramochi jabbed Kazuya in the ribs as they passed under a scattering of pink petals drifting from a cherry tree planted along the sidewalk.
"So, our esteemed main catcher-in-waiting—still sharing the spot with Kawabata, huh? Must feel nice to be part of a team… and yet completely unowned," The shortstop snickered like a toddler, not even trying to hide the insult to injury. "You're playing musical catchers every damn week. Meanwhile, I've got shortstop all to myself. All mine. No swapping, no rotations. Just me. Alone."
Kazuya arched an eyebrow, smirk sharpening. "Oh? And does anyone make a highlight reel for your defensive plays?"
Kuramochi sighed aggressively, throwing his head back. "Fuck you, you irredeemable bastard."
Kazuya tilted his head, smirk twitching. "Yeah, yeah, I keep a journal. First entry: Kuramochi still talks too much. Second entry: he's annoying. Third entry: must remind him I'll get that main catcher spot someday. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Keep him guessing. It's an art."
Streetlights flickered on, throwing a warm glow over the path they were walking on. The sun had set, leaving the sky a bruised gradient of indigo and violet. He could smell the faint sweetness of flowers mixed with the diesel and dust of city streets, a springtime concoction that smelled alive and familiar in a way the sterile dome never could.
Kuramochi matched his pace, talking quieter now. "You know… after what the coach said today… doesn't it make you think about Seidou?"
Kazuya blinked, tensing slightly. Of course Kuramochi could not leave a single conversation without dragging him there.
"How so?"
Kuramochi hesitated, clearly feeling a little awkward himself for bringing up such a heavy topic. The two of them never had conversations like these. They were both far too closed off and nonchalant for something so sentimental; they'd rather forget about things like this and push them far down their stomachs where the noise of it would be muted. It was one of those things they had in common, though Kuramochi was far better off than Kazuya who was so emotionally constipated, God himself couldn't save him.
"Back there, it was like you were never alone, right? Someone was always talking with you, eating with you, showering with you, sleeping with you. I know it sounds cheesy, but it really felt like…like we were a family or something, you know? Felt like home." He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly, a faint blush against his cheeks. The shortstop always liked to act tough, but when it came down to it he was a huge softie.
Kazuya glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, sensing the weight in his words. He didn't reply, just adjusted his grip on the bag strap, letting the wind ruffle his hair, petals sticking to his shoes like confetti. The quiet of the city pressed against them, cars driving and honking in the distance, and for a moment, Kazuya could almost remember the chaos, the noise, the constant presence of Seidou—the smell of the turf, the clatter of cleats, the laughter and yelling that followed him everywhere.
Kuramochi's voice broke through the reverie. "Don't get me wrong—I love it here. The Swallows are… something else. But damn, sometimes I miss walking back with people who actually knew me."
Kazuya exhaled, a quiet puff of breath that smelled faintly of the day's dust and leftover sweat. "You make it sound like high school was paradise."
Kuramochi snorted, stepping over a scattering of petals. "Paradise? Nah. But it was… warmer. Somehow."
Kazuya hated how he understood exactly what Kuramochi was talking about. The nostalgia of it all settled uncomfortably like thick honey in the back of his throat.
Before he could think of a reply, Kuramochi took the reins of the conversation again, thankfully. The short stop probably knew that leaving such a heavy ended conversation on Kazuya was not the smartest move.
"It's spring time already, huh?" Kuramochi tilted his head back to look at the cherry petals floating down against the night sky backdrop. "That means the first year trio and the rest of those guys are finally graduating."
Kazuya glanced over. "Yeah? Maybe they'll actually learn how to listen after graduation. Miracles happen."
"You totally miss teasing him, don't you?"
"Who?"
God, that was such a weak attempt of pretending like he didn't know who Kuramochi was talking about. The vivid flash that tore through his head—like one of those end-of-life montages people talked about—had probably just played in full HD across his face.
Kuramochi shot him a deadpan look. "You know damn well who, Miyuki Kazuya," he said, pitching his voice high and nasal when saying his full name in an attempt to make an impression.
Kazuya turned forward again, ignoring any accusations and implications made right now, for his own sake. "They won Koshein this year, didn't they?"
The shortstop squinted at Kazuya suspiciously and, thankfully, didn't comment on the topic change.
"Yeah, they were incredible," Kuramochi huffed, puffing his chest out a little like he'd personally trained their kouhais himself. "It was after our practice, thank God, so I actually got to watch it. And you should've seen my face when I saw Bakamura back on the mound as ace—that moron pitched the entire Koshien final against fuckin' Hongo Masamune and won!" He jabbed a finger at Kazuya's shoulder, scowling. "And you—some senpai you are! How the hell did you miss that? One of the greatest performances of your pitcher, that you practically built from scratch, and you were too busy with your precious extra practice to even watch it live. Unbelievable."
Except Kazuya watched it. He skipped his extra practice, turned the TV's volume to the max, and watched it. He remembered that day so vividly, sitting alone in his living room, leaning forward with his forearms on his thighs, fingers laced so tight they ached.
He sat and watched Sawamura play baseball.
He watched every pitch, every sign exchanged, every twitch, every breath. Every loss and mistake felt like his own, his heart beating so fast it was like he himself was playing. He remembered watching so keenly that his eyes felt dry afterward from not blinking. How could he have blinked when watching the pitcher that changed everything for him play in the finals of fucking Koshein and win?
He was incredible.
And Kazuya had never yearned so badly to catch for a pitcher more then in that moment.
"Do you remember how bad, Sawamura used to be?" Kuramochi mused. "Oh my fucking god, he was somehow worse than a beginner. I don't even know how Takashima-san scouted him—the idiot couldn't even pitch straight! Kyaha!" He grinned, his hyena laughing building.
Kazuya couldn't help but laugh at the memory of middle-schooler Sawamura, baby face and all, sizing himself up against Azuma.
"Do you remember when we first went to Koshein?" Kazuya said, already laughing before the punchline. "He tripped in front of everyone before the first pitch!"
Kuramochi's laughter grew louder, echoing down the street, drawing a few curious looks from a passing couple.
He wiped at his eyes, still laughing, shaking his head. "I swear to God, I was this close to strangling him behind the plate! I've never felt such second hand embarrassment in my life."
"He was so red!" Kazuya wheezed. "I couldn't even signal the next pitch because I was laughing so hard. The moron doesn't do anything half way."
"Not at all," Kuramochi huffed. "That idiot would go all out and work himself to the bone if we didn't stop him. I swear he shaved at least twelve years off my life with how many gray hairs I gained because of him."
The shortstop always complained, but the sickeningly fond tone in his voice told Kazuya otherwise.
Kuramochi kicked a loose pebble down the sidewalk. "Hey, have you talked to him lately?"
Kazuya blinked in surprise, eyebrows furrowing. "Why would I have his number?"
Kuramochi looked at him like he'd grown a second head. "You never got it? But you two were so close!"
"Close? I'd say that idiot hated me for how much teasing I did to him every day," Kazuya snorted, tossing a glance at him.
"Are you stupid?" Kuramochi deadpanned. "You two were so in sync with literally everything it was almost scary. You'd argue like an old married couple and then you'd both turn around laughing, plotting some little evil scheme against whoever was stupid enough to be on the other side of the field."
Kazuya's jaw tightened, his mind running fast, trying to shove the memory away. "Yeah, well, maybe I just—liked having a good teammate."
That was all he was. That was all everyone was.
With the exception of Kuramochi who had put up with Kazuya's nonsense and somehow still decided to stick around, everyone else was simply a teammate to Kazuya.
Even Sawamura.
Kuramochi snorted, elbowing him lightly. "A good teammate, right. I don't think you saw the way you'd look at him when he actually pulled something off."
Kazuya's fingers curled a little tighter on his bag strap, a pulse of something sharp running under his skin. "You don't know anything."
Kuramochi shrugged, unfazed. "Maybe. But I've been around long enough to know what it looks like when someone actually gets you." The short-stop eyed Kazuya. "He got you, Miyuki. Don't even try to lie to me about that."
Kazuya opened his mouth to argue but when he saw the look on Kuramochi's face, he understood that this was one of those moments where Kuramochi translates Kazuya's emotions and tells him what he's feeling—because Kazuya is shit at processing them—and Kazuya is supposed to acknowledge them and realize Kuramochi was right.
And he was right. Like always. Fuck.
"Anyway," Kuramochi continued, "I've been trying to get in contact with that moron for weeks now, but that idiot doesn't reply to anything. I even asked Chris, Furuya, Haruichi, Kanemaru—nobody can get a hold of him. It's like he's gone MIA or something."
Kazuya let the words hang for a moment, watching a petal land on the edge of his cleat. "Sounds like him," he muttered, dry, letting the wind carry his voice into the city night.
"Yeah, well, some of us still care enough to try. Not like you, apparently."
"Careful," Kazuya said, voice flat, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Or you'll make it sound like you're sentimental, Mochi. You'd hate that, wouldn't you?"
Kuramochi rolled his eyes, ignoring the comment. "It just sucks not knowing where Sawamura is, you know? I don't even know if he's dead or alive."
That made something squeeze tightly in Kazuya's chest. His lungs felt slightly constricted all of a sudden.
"Oi, don't manifest it, idiot," Kazuya glared.
"I'm not manifesting shit," Kuramochi barked back defensively before sighing. "He probably went pro too, right? I bet he got at least the same amount of scouts as you, if not more. He's an attractive pitcher to have in this generation where pitching machines exist."
The apartment building loomed ahead, a dark silhouette against the bruised spring sky, its windows catching the last streaks of fading sunlight like scattered shards of glass. It looked expensive—like the kind of place a private company would brag about in a brochure, not the kind of place most rookies could ever hope to afford on their own. Sleek, modern balconies jutted out at careful intervals, each one offering a view of the city that would probably make anyone stop and take a picture. The management had gone all in: floor-to-ceiling windows, polished concrete in the lobby, a café tucked inside for residents, and a gym that actually had equipment that wasn't two decades old. It screamed "this is professional life now," in all the best and slightly intimidating ways.
Kazuya exhaled through his mouth in a silent thanks. He was lucky to live here without worrying about rent, bills, or anything else. It was one less thing to think about, one less distraction from the grind the Swallows expected from him. The wind tugged at the edges of his jacket, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms and asphalt, and for a moment he let himself appreciate that someone had actually thought about them enough to make this possible.
Not that anyone back home ever cared enough to ask if he even made it through the day.
Which is why those dormitory days at Seidou had felt like the best three years of his life. The constant noise—the chatter, the laughter, the ridiculous arguing over nothing—had lit up a world that was otherwise too cold and quiet. He hadn't realized how comforting noise could be, especially from certain pitchers. He'd gotten used to being chased every day by one loud, impossibly energetic boy who seemed to carry sunlight in his chest, and now, stuck in a dorm of his own, the absence hit like a punch to the gut.
Being in the pros was supposed to be the trade-off, the "grown-up prize," but it didn't fill the hole that boy had left behind. It was like trading the sun for its reflection off the moon.
Kuramochi shoved his hands in his hoodie's pockets. "Do you still think about him?"
Every day.
"No."
Kuramochi glanced at him but didn't push. He knew better than that.
So Kazuya changed the topic, changed the mood of the conversation, because he couldn't stand staying in this heavy silence for a second longer.
Because if he let himself think about Sawamura, he'd start remembering the sound of his voice, the stupid grin, the way his fastball moved. And he didn't need that.
"So what do you want for dinner today?"
Kuramochi peeked up at him. "You're cooking again today?"
Kazuya gave him a sidelong look. "When do I not?"
"Hey, I buy the groceries," Kuramochi shot back, jabbing a finger at him. "That's teamwork."
"That's bare minimum," Kazuya drawled, stepping aside as they reached the apartment building entrance. The automatic doors slid open, the cool air inside washing over them. "Half the time you forget what I asked for and bring back instant ramen instead."
"Oi, that was one time!" Kuramochi protested as he followed him in. "And it was on sale!"
Kazuya laughed. "How cheap are you? It's already like one hundred yen. Are you that broke, Mr. Shortstop-who-doesn't-have-to-share-with-anybody?"
The lobby was quiet at this hour, lit by the soft glow of overhead lights. They crossed the tiled floor and stepped into the elevator.
"We basically have the same fucking salary, dipshit," Kuramochi hissed.
"Basically isn't actually," the catcher mused, leaning into the elevator's wall with his head resting against it.
Kuramochi glared at him before jamming the twelfth-floor button like it personally offended him. He reached for his phone in his back pocket, scrolling through his notifications like a slave to the matrix he was.
Kazuya had a phone, he just barely used it. Honestly, he wasn't that far off from Sawamura's pure no-techonology-insanity with only thirty minutes of average screen time.
"Holy shit…" Kuramochi gasped, staring at his phone with eyes practically bulging out of his skull.
Kazuya raised a brow. "What is it?"
"The Giants won their game today—"
"Well yeah, no shit Sherlock. They win all the time."
The Giants were who they were aiming to beat after all. A consistent champion of the Japan series.
"You didn't let me finish, asshole," Kuramochi clicked his tongue. "They won 14-4 against the Hawks. With Narumiya playing."
Kazuya widened his eyes, straightening off the wall. "Oh shit…"
Just how good had Mei gotten?
"Oh, so now you believe me? See what happens when you don't let me finish—"
Kazuya snatched the phone out of Kuramochi's hands, thumb scrolling through the article. It was short, more like a highlight summary than an in-depth piece, but it was enough.
'Narumiya Mei leads Giants to crushing 14–4 victory—nine strikeouts, one walk, zero earned runs.' The rest was praise dressed as stats. Mentions of his control, his velocity, the way his fastball had somehow improved over the off-season—how it now kissed the upper 150s like it was effortless.
Damn it. He needed to win. He needed to beat him.
A soft ding announced the twelfth floor, and Kuramochi was still muttering under his breath when Kazuya handed the phone back, face unreadable. He stepped into the hallway—narrow, clean, with identical doors and that faint scent of laundry detergent that seemed to cling to apartment complexes everywhere. Their doors were side by side, 1203 and 1204.
"So?" Kuramochi asked, trailing him into the corridor. "Think we can beat him?"
Kazuya's hand froze mid-turn of his key. The tug of his lips pulled his head in Kuramochi's direction, glasses glinting in the warm lighting.
"We've got me." He twisted the key until the sharp click was heard. "'Course we'll win."
Kuramochi rolled his eyes for the nth time that day. "Right, right…" The short stop fished for his keys but followed Kazuya into his apartment instead, as usual. "I forgot how big your ego is."
Kazuya dropped his bag by the counter and moved into the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, already pulling ingredients from the fridge. The smooth marble countertop reflected the faint glow from the overhead lights, black cabinets gleaming softly as he opened drawers for knives and cutting boards. He liked the space—the kitchen wasn't cramped, and the island in the middle gave him enough room to move without feeling boxed in. Plus, he could keep an eye on the living room, where a large flat-screen TV hung on the wall. Perfect for multitasking: chopping vegetables while watching pitching videos or highlights from games around the league.
The place was neat, minimal, save for the small chaos of baseball gear and the faint smell of coffee and spice that never quite went away.
Kuramochi wandered past him, dragging one hand along the stone-gray couch as he moved toward the windows. A fuzzy blanket, left crumpled across the cushions, stuck to his palm. "You really do like this place, huh?" he said, tilting his head to press his forehead against the floor-to-ceiling glass. The city lights shimmered below, a river of neon and streetlamps stretching into the distance.
"Of course I do," Kazuya replied without looking up, slicing carrots with precision. "Twelfth floor. Quiet enough that you can think, close enough to the rooftop if I feel like escaping idiots downstairs. Perfect view, perfect height."
Kuramochi hummed, opening the sleek sliding balcony door and stepping out. The spring air hit him, carrying the faint scent of cherry blossoms drifting from somewhere nearby. Petals clung to his hair as he leaned against the railing. "Yeah, yeah, you've mentioned this about a thousand times," he said, voice muffled against the night air. "But I get it now. You're weirdly territorial about your floor."
"Territorial?" Kazuya raised a brow, scraping the vegetables off the cutting board into a pot. "Don't mistake me for you, Kuramochi. I'm not a dog."
Kuramochi ducked back inside, closing the door behind him, and leaned against the island. Kazuya noticed how the small dining table to the right gleamed under the lights, six chairs arranged around it like they were waiting for a dinner party that never came. He ignored it, as usual, keeping everything on the island. It was easier, more convenient, and allowed him to talk and cook at the same time.
"I hope you get run over."
"You love me too much," Kazuya grinned.
"Die."
The catcher let out an amused huff, glasses sliding to the edge of his nose as if they too had grown Kazuya's cocky attitude. With smooth movements that would make even Michael Jackson jealous, Kazuya swiftly poured the soup into a bowl, sliding it over with a dish of rice across the island before taking his own portions and settling down in a high seat next to Kuramochi.
A sports channel on the TV behind them played as background noise as the two dug into their food. It had become a routine: Kuramochi waking up first, barging into Kazuya's apartment through their shared balcony—courtesy of the wall they'd knocked down on move-in day—and screeching like some deranged zoo escapee to drag him out of bed, because Kazuya had the uncanny ability to sleep through catastrophes, alarms, and Kuramochi's loud banging on the other side of the wall in his own apartment. The shortstop was naive enough to believe that knocking on the wall dividing their apartments would at least have Kazuya up and about by the time Kuramochi got there, but Kazuya was always still snuggled up in bed with his eye mask like sleeping beauty. Every single time.
On the rare mornings when he woke up in that half-conscious state to readjust his position at the exact moment, he'd hear Kuramochi's desperate wall-punching. Kazuya would blink, acknowledge it, and promptly go right back to sleep—mostly to be petty. Outside of that miracle window though, Kazuya was already six layers deep in REM and legally unreachable.
Then Kuramochi would rush him to put on his uniform, throwing shirts and what not at Kazuya, before dragging Kazuya out of the apartment, down to first floor, grabbing a quick breakfast from the café inside the building and eating it along the way to the dome.
On most days, Kuramochi would wake up early enough for them to not have to rush on their morning walk there, but on some very specific mornings that were in no way Kazuya's fault, they'd sprint down the streets of Tokyo lugging their baseball equipment on their backs.
Kazuya liked to call it a great morning warm-up. Kuramochi always told him he'd leave without him next time.
He never did.
It was little things like that which made Kazuya overlook the way Kuramochi loitered in his apartment after practice, inhaled whatever Kazuya cooked, and rambled about absolute nonsense.
Kazuya chewed his rice, taking a sip of his soup as he listened to Kuramochi yap.
"—and I'm telling you that ump had it out for us, dude. You didn't see the asshole's face when I slid into second, he looked like I'd—"
A sharp ding cut through the room.
Kazuya's eyes flicked to his phone, the screen glowing where it sat right side up next to his bowl. His jaw stopped moving, body going rigid.
His father.