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Your heart is your blood supply Miyuki Kazuya. Sawamura says to him. They stand on a field, completely black. Kazuya cant tell up from down side from left and often from right. He knows this is a baseball field. Knows that they are shaking right now but Sawamura is a stark beauty between the darkness. His unnaturally golden eyes shine, shine and he suddenly a predator. The glove he didn’t hold in his hand covets a ball that shouldn’t be there. Your warmth is a glove Miyuki Kazuya. it says again. His voice distorted. Sewn together from all the happenstances Kazuya has heard him speak. Some sad some angry some solemn. One of them is screeching to a horror movie other to Kuramochi’s antics. Some of them are celebrating their victory, the crowd’s response dying in Sawamura’s decibel. He eats them up. He eats everything up. The ball has a bite worth less on it. It looks like a skewed version of a capitalist company, he refuses to cooperate to their demands, he refuses to cave into his fears and ask his father, he refusese to ask him for help, he refuses that man– sudden flash of light covers everything in a darker layer of darkness. Kuramochi is looking at him now. Your glove is worn out he is saying. I can see it. I could see it since the beginning. Ölüceksin. He says. It’s stark clarity is jarring. He turns to the other side of the darkness. On his left–maybe right?, it’s lighter. The overwhelming black has a moment of repreive. Sawamura is waving at him. Saving him from a black-eyed kuramochi, his pupils blown wide, his limbs in places where they shouldn’t be, his hair is red, maybe it’s blue, it’s not the right colour it should be. Growling in the darkness, the sounds of a wolf and the hit of a pitch to a mitt. He takes the ball and throws it to second. The runner is tagged out. The crowd cheers. His pitcher looks at him from the mound, pride etched into his being. His blonde hair glows with the sun, the cap doing nothing to tether those ice-cold eyes. That’s not his pitcher. Watching the game from the stands does not compare to being behind that plate. Sawamura hugs his arm beside him. Their hands are clasped tight together. “Sawamura.” he dreads, looks at the faceless face, like god forgot to sculpture it, forgot to give it an appearance. Mi…ki…I…ve…o…Im…bec…grea…er…o…day! it buzzes, his voice chords half made half melted into his neck, Kazuya watches their irritated movements from his asophagus, their held hands aching within that warmth. Melting together into warmth, his golden mitt beats once, twice, thrice, for the fourth time, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth. Until it finally produces blood. Staining the hunter eyes red, Sawmaura cries blood. It drips into his stomache. Kazuya squeezes it dry, tandem with his breathing so they align. Their star signs dance together, the celestial bodies lends a hand for Kazuya to take. Kazuya takes it without fear. The space-time sings a song for them. Something blood chilling, time used as the chords for a violin and Sawamura as the player, nothing good comes out of the badly played blackhole, the hole in it pierces through Sawamura’s heart. Kazuya turns and twists with the blue sun holding his hand another holing his waist, twirling him. His suit bores him, it drags itself across skin, becoming a newer layer as the blackhole plays itself, Sawamura bleeds to death on the floor, another badly made copy of the pitcher he l***s so much. He l***s him. L***s him. ***** him. The blue star throws him high up, he doesn’t stop, he keeps going up, up, up, up, up, up and up and forward as he flaps his wings the freest he has ever been. He loves. The sky is blue and the sun is golden. Him. He jumps out of the canvas, coloring the floor with acrylic and losing substance with each step. Some human finds him. Danger, threatening to his multiple toned acrylic skin. He tries to escape, to step back. But he has lost all of his legs, he stumbles back. He becomes one with the floor. Something that has the same color laces of his heart looks at him with tears in his eyes, Kazuya refuses to turn back. He refuses to lose whatever that has been promised to him. He hates him. Don’t lie Kazuya. Look at me when you talk to me you stupid excuse of a father! Dont lie Kazuya. Its all your fault! he is gone and the cloud that he is riding has the same texture as a carpet, the pot he holds in his hands gets colder as he keeps rubbing it. This is the end of the entire world and he is the only one dead. Sawamura looks at down at him from where he sits on the table with a man that refuses to meet his eyes with a woman far away in a hospital bed that refuses to love him with elders that refuse to understand him. Sawamura looks at him. Looks at him, stares at him. His skin is in stark detail, Kazuya can see every pore and popped pimple every fiber in his eyes, he can see the molecules of his pupils, he watches the erratic motions of his electrons, he consumes his gravitons. They fly through the once dance field, the blackhole lays broken, split open. A light show strikes above it, pouring out of it like a stepped on paint tube, they fight for who should be forefront, Sawamura and his hands are melted together with a ball between them, the only protection Kazuya has from him, the only facade he can keep up to keep hiding under his covers, to keep himself safe within lockers. His face is bloody and bruised because he loves that one baseball card, it stubbornly stares at him. You love him Kazuya. It says moving only his mouth, I lo** him. Kazuya says back. I lo** him. The locker is slammed shot, his mom is staring at him, isn’t avoiding his eyes and is staring deep deep into him, counting the multiples of trillions of planck length he is made of. Her hatred is obvious as she utters the next words. You hate him. She doesnt bother with saying his name. It doesn’t bother her, that her son is infidelity. That her son is a conjecture against all of humanities most desperate beliefs. He gets up from the table with his chopsticks set straight on the bowl, a non-ceremonial end this should the woman looks at him again. You love him Kazuya. she says. It’s melting, he is melting, its warm, its too warm inside this furnace, its to warm and it shakes periodically. The stark black consumes him, he is melting. The laces become fire and disappear wholly. Kazuya is made of only bones a few lucky tendons when he is thrown with the grip that gives the story of his life a name, he goes hard and hard and hard right into a matt sun with a harsh crack right into a right-handed batters chest. Kazuya stares at Kazuya. He is boiling slowly, he is unbecoming everything that he shouldntve ever been in the first place. He doesn’t know how he manages to crush someone four times his size. Those eleven pitches of fate change the course of history. Sawamura’s mouth has disappeared, the dirty way he eats is gone. Kazuya falls, come back, he says, come back, I lov* you. From his phone screen a cracked glass southpaw pitcher, his partner. It looks at him with the fierceness of a lion, it looks at him with fond affection. Miyuki Kazuya, your mitt is my favorite color. I love yellow. It says. Mechanic and generated. The color yellow throat sings from the depth of his bag, Miyuki Kazuya from the depths of hell, his father a steel man and his mother agone~ Miyuki Kazuya from the dirt and mud, from the strict fields and the forged lands~ A gone gone man for another man, a lefty for balls for brains and colossal hearts~ The fight is lost~ The fight is lost~ To win is to lose and the fight is lost~ Miyuki Kazuya the genius catcher is gone gone gone for another man, he is gone gone gone~ He is gone gone gone, oh Miyuki Kazuya from the depths of hell~ Sawamura sings with it, his voice a beautiful meoldy, The bastard afloat with his steeled heart~ The lover with his tender parts~ He is aching and bruised~ aching and bruised~ The oh lover of the greatest depths, the greatest depths~ The oh lover, say it to me, the oh lover~ I love you.