A/N: I liked the idea of incorporating the rest of the Nishiura team into an Abe/Mihashi story. This will be a multi-chapter story, Abe and Mihashi's developing relationship through the eyes of their teammates. Set in the characters' third year.

This is a chapter I've been waiting to write. I hope you enjoy it.

4.

Abe's gotten better about raising his voice to Mihashi, but for once, Suyama forgives him. Even this far away, standing with his back pressed to the wall in the stadium locker room and listening to the catcher's voice echo off the tiles, he can tell this is Abe desperate, not angry. They're all a little desperate right now.

It's been a long, hard-fought season. As always, it seems like the deck's been stacked against them, facing off with one nationally ranked team after another. But after weeks of hard hitting, skidding into second, and miracle plays at home plate, they've finally fought their way here—to the top of their bracket, top of the seventh, one win away from qualifying to compete at Koshien. And in spite of the sweat soaking everyone's jerseys, in spite of half the crowd cheering for them and the first- and second-year relievers screaming their lungs out on the bench, Suyama's just not sure they have enough to go all the way.

He's up to bat in four, has just stepped into the locker room to change his undershirt, clear his head. They're down by two runs, which isn't so bad. What's bad is that the other team's got Mihashi's pitch figured out. What's bad is that they faced off eight batters before they managed to get the third out and close the bottom of the sixth, and not one of those batters struck out. Suyama leans his head back against the wall, tries not to remember the stricken look on their pitcher's face as he stumbled off the field, so white Suyama worried he was going to pass out. Abe's arm around his waist seemed like all that was holding him up.

They have a few relief pitchers now, but nobody good enough to pitch against this team. In many ways, they're exactly where they were that first year: if Mihashi comes out, they lose. God, he doesn't want to lose, not when they're this close. He doesn't want to let anyone down—especially not the second baseman, who always shoots him such an amazing smile when they win…Suyama squeezes his eyes shut, tries to get into his batting headspace, forget about the ball he fumbled in the fourth that cost them an easy double play.

His concentration is broken by the sound of footsteps in the hallway between the dugout and the locker room, the clatter of cleats on the concrete floor. For a second he thinks someone's coming in, but instead the footsteps stop right outside—he hears the soft thump of something hitting the wall, the pitiful, shuddering sound of Mihashi crying. His heart crunches a little in his chest. Then Abe's voice, low and soothing:

"Breathe, okay? Just breathe for a second."

Suyama straightens, can't resist edging silently toward the door, peering around the corner to see what's going on. Mihashi's got his back against the wall, his arms wrapped around his stomach like he's trying to hold himself together, and Abe's standing in front of him, leaning close, one hand braced next to Mihashi's head. To a stranger, he might almost look menacing, but Suyama knows Abe knows what he's doing, has seen the way Mihashi relaxes when Abe surrounds him like a shield. It's not working today, judging by the tears sliding down the pitcher's cheeks.

Mihashi sucks in a quivering breath. "E-every—every pitch got hit." He trembles when he says it, his voice breaking in the middle.

Abe shakes his head. "Every pitch gets hit eventually. Look, we've faced teams like this before. We can still do this."

It's amazing how calm he sounds; Suyama can't read him well enough to tell if any part of it's a front. But one look at their pitcher's slack face, blank eyes staring through his catcher's chest as if he were insubstantial, is enough to know Mihashi isn't hearing him; he's already in panic mode, his breaths getting higher and faster as he shrinks into himself.

"I'm not—good enough. I can't…I-I c-c-can't…outpitch them, and—"

"Mihashi."

There's an edge in Abe's voice now, just enough to tell Suyama that Mihashi's scaring him, too. The shortstop wants to help, to step out into the hallway and offer whatever support he can, but something holds him back. Maybe it's just how private this moment feels, the members of Nishiura's battery standing so close they could bleed into each other, sheltered by the thunder of noise from the stadium overhead (God, he hopes that's a hit, not an out)—maybe it's because Abe's the only one who can ask what he's asking right now, one hand slipping from the wall to settle over his pitcher's collarbone while the other hovers in the air.

"Mihashi, give me your hand."

Mihashi obeys automatically, pressing right hand to left, but even from the first moment of contact Suyama can see that he's slipping away, his fingers limp and shaking. Abe has to grab him just to keep their palms together. Mihashi's eyelashes shiver with fresh tears.

"It's going to be over. Ev…everything. And it's my…m-my fault because I'm not—I've n-never been good enough—"

"Mihashi, look at me. Mihashi!"

Suyama feels Abe's desperation break in the instant before he moves—slides his grip around to Mihashi's wrist, tugs that precious right hand up to his face and presses his lips hard into the cradle of his palm, dark eyes shut tight. The shock of it hits Suyama like a thunderclap, tingling in his veins—he sees the same shock mirrored on Mihashi's face, those glistening brown eyes open wide as Mihashi stares at his catcher, his captive hand, the point of contact where the two collide. He blinks and a few stray tears slip down his cheeks, utterly forgotten in the moment when Abe opens his eyes, pulls back just far enough to disengage lips from skin.

"What did I say about breathing?"

For a second, breathing is all any of them can do—Suyama leans back into the wall, one hand caging his thrashing heart, not sure what he's witnessing through the sliver of the doorway. Mihashi's breath had stopped altogether in the moment Abe moved, but gradually Suyama hears it stutter back into a normal rhythm, both halves of the battery breathing in time. Abe gives a long sigh, runs a hand through his black hair.

"Listen to me. We're not out of this yet. We've come back from worse. I know you're scared, but it's not just you out there. It's me," he says, and Suyama wonders if Abe notices the way his hand clenches around Mihashi's, as if to prove it. "It's all of us. Yeah, they're going to hit it—" Mihashi shudders a little in his hold. "—but the team can handle that. We can handle that. You just have to trust me."

Mihashi jerks his head up, struggles to speak through his trembling lips. "I—I…I al-always—"

"I know," Abe says. "I trust you, too. And most of the time, that's enough. But right now, I need you to rely on me like you used to, when we first teamed up. Put everything you've got in me, just one more time."

Mihashi stares at him for a long moment, silent, speechless. Then Suyama sees his shoulders relax, his small body slumping boneless against the wall, all the pain and fear suddenly gone from his face—because trusting Abe, well, that's something Mihashi's never had to fight for. Mihashi tips his head, looks up at Abe for the first time with clear eyes. The catcher still has that pale, callused hand pressed to his cheek, close enough for Mihashi to trace his thumb across the line of his mouth; Suyama's not sure which of them to blame for the way Abe's lips catch against the pad.

"Can you do that for me?" Abe asks, though he doesn't have to.

Mihashi nods, offers something that's almost a smile. "Y-yes."

Abe nods back. "Okay. Then let's do this."

They're a few steps down the hall, almost out of sight from the locker room doorway, when Mihashi stops short, pulls back on the hand that's still laced through his partner's. Abe pauses, glances over his shoulder. Suyama watches Mihashi fidget with the seam of his sleeve.

"Abe. Tha—thank you…I—we, um…we can win!"

"Yeah," Abe says, and smiles. Then he turns Mihashi's hand over and brushes his lips across the back of it, and leads his pitcher into the dugout, the wake of their footsteps echoing in the concrete hall. Suyama counts to twenty before following them, presses his fingers into the tiles with one thought pounding in his head: that Abe will never forgive himself if they lose.

But they don't lose. And in the seconds of disbelief two and a half innings later, still struggling to hear the roar of the crowd over his pulse pounding in his ears, Suyama can only think that in three years he's never seen Mihashi pitch like that, every single play a masterpiece. He shoots a thumbs up to Mizutani racing in from left field, catches that incredible smile on Sakaeguchi's face—looks back to the mound in time to see Abe throw his mask off, grab Mihashi by the waist and lift him off his feet, spin him around and around. Suyama can't tell if the pitcher's laughing or crying. For a second, he thinks Abe's going to kiss him right there on the field—but Abe just presses their foreheads together, closes his eyes as Mihashi's arms sink onto his shoulders.

"You did it," Abe says, and Mihashi squirms, though not to get away.

"No," he tries to protest. "You—we—"

Then the mound is awash with all of them, laughing and high-fiving and Tajima whooping above the fray, and Suyama loses sight of the battery when Nishihiro barrels in from the dugout and throws an arm around his neck—but just before he's swallowed up in the crush, he decides we is probably right: Mihashi pitching, and Abe catching, and the rest of them watching in awe the synergy of two people who belong right where they are, wrapped in each other's arms.

He hopes they figure that out without wasting any more time.