Title: Pas De Deux In Print
Author: Harmony (Silver Harmony)
Characters/Pairing: Miyuki x Sawamura
Rating: PG
Word Count: Approximately 12,481.
Disclaimer: Not mine, otherwise this pairing would be canon.
Notes: For those who don't understand the title, pas de deux is basically the term for a ballet duet. That's all it is. Also, I've wanted to write a story involving the media for quite a long time (it was actually my field of study, and now profession). But wow. This turned out to be quite a bit more challenging than I'd envisioned, so I sincerely hope that it's enjoyable to read to some degree!
Feedback: Very much appreciated, as I need it to improve. Thank you!

…

The printed caption reads: Winning catcher Miyuki Kazuya, accompanied by rival pitcher Sawamura Eijun, pillar of the next contending team.

Full colors melt thinly on white, forming their mirror images – masterfully delicate, eerily tranquil, a placid bloom of a single flower in a bed of snow. It's a crisp, fresh print off the press; a nigh-living candid snapshot framed by logic and statistics and sports politics, all sprinkled across a pale magazine page. As still as stone, yet halfway to breathing: an exquisitely tasteful picture on a disquietingly cold canvas.

He remembers the moment the photograph was captured, walking side-by-side with the weight of Sawamura's arm comfortable and warm around his hips, the faint curve of a luminous smile upon those brightened features, burnished gold eyes colored with pride, and the heated breath of a murmured you did it, Miyuki spilling from that mouth. The entirety of Sawamura's face had been cheerfully vibrant from corner to corner, awash with radiant sunlight and the temperate midday air and every shade of quivering elation illustrated in a brilliant spectrum of hues. Kazuya had turned inwards to answer him with a slanted grin, slowly curling an arm over Sawamura's shoulders and drawing himself close, still intoxicated with renewed victory and the thrill of gameplay; he'd turned a blind eye to the distant flurry of roused reporters scrambling for any piece of the winning team, and the continuous camera clicks resonating like the sound of shattering glass.

Were they always such good friends?

Are they friends, or—?

What are they?

And it's stunning, how fast he's suddenly curtained beneath their innumerable gazes. People talk, and they write – canopies of dirty gossamer cords weaving across the pages of the online message boards, gnarled threads of silk with gaps made of hollow gossip, of mindless speculations. He wonders if this is how it ends: his play, his victory, his baseball, all sinking below the plastic of media attention.

Kazuya plays for no one but himself. It isn't hard to disregard cobwebs in the cracks and corners. But even then, he understands that professional play doesn't have quite the same flavor as the youthful innocence and organic freedom of middle school, high school, even college baseball.

He's nearly twenty-three and he gets his first taste of what it means to be in the public eye.

The credits have long since rolled and they still haven't made any real effort to move, a casually tangled mess of four long legs and lazily-tossed arms in the too-small loveseat. A warm languor swathes nights like these, when they're sitting comfortably together without having to really say or do anything of consequence, an unusual, undefined companionship with the hues of a dreamy haze. But then Sawamura reaches over and gently brushes the back of his knuckles against Kazuya's with ease, catching his attention, before bending forward to retrieve the copy of Monthly Baseball Kingdom from the coffee table in front of them.

'Have you seen that photo of us that they printed in this?' he asks with a childish pout to his lips, a single lean finger pointing at the front cover with emphasis, near-stupid and comforting in his juvenile earnestness.

'Of course,' Kazuya retorts flatly. 'I didn't just buy that for decoration.'

Sawamura leisurely shakes his head as if to make a point, wisps of unruly brown hair falling over an unexpectedly collected gaze. Half-lidded gold eyes are flecked with a strange tranquility; yet in a way, they still carry faint slivers of his usual full-hearted resolution, too. 'Somehow … the picture's – kinda beautiful, isn't it.'

Kazuya stares at him with curious interest, calmly twisting long fingers into the rough fabric of his trousers. He doesn't want to say yes; not aloud. There's something about the idea of doing that that makes him visualize being laid bare, being left too unclothed. Sawamura thumbs with ease through the crisp pages to the article in question, and the photograph is still delicately lovely there, a rectangular wash of vivid color and an image of breathtaking familiarity, closeness, security amidst a cold black-and-white sea of inked text.

'Actually,' says Kazuya finally, prompting Sawamura to look up at him, 'it's no wonder people are all talking.'

A grin slowly unfolds across Sawamura's face, then, thinning his lips and creasing the corners of his eyes, and glimmering laughter rings out from his throat – a resonance of a bubbling spring. 'Yeah,' he agrees. 'I didn't know we could look like that.'

Like that. A captured moment in time as elegant as a painting with measured brushstrokes: a picture of heartfelt and focused mutual gazes, comforting arms languidly enveloped around one another, bodies tenderly pressed together, and the mellow wisps of easy smiles on faces that are barely a soft breath's distance apart from each other. Which is funny in retrospect, because there's no solid definition for what they are: they're not together, not an item, not lovers. It may even be a little debatable, in his opinion, as to whether or not they can actually classify themselves as friends. There's no label that they call themselves, whatever their gestures may be within enclosed walls.

Clearly Sawamura's thinking across similar lines but on separate rails, because his eyes swiftly round out with his usual boyish enthusiasm and he nonchalantly hooks his dangling foot beneath Kazuya's, skin warm against skin and toes curling meekly, and questions: 'Hey, just curious – what if – well, more of this kind of stuff got published out of the blue?'

A mild incredulity sweeps over Kazuya at that question, and he skews his mouth a little, because what can they really unlock to the public when they give it no names, when they give it no real mention in conversation at any point in time? It's a door so private and so discreet, even to them, that its color and shape and nature of existence are nearly questionable.

'Moron,' he monotones, grabbing the magazine out of Sawamura's lap, deftly rolling it up and lightly smacking him on the head with it once; a startled yelp emits from Sawamura's throat, followed by the materialization of an impressively acerbic scowl. 'Why are you asking such weird questions? Are you seriously not put off at all by how thirsty people can get about the lives of public figures? Like, is this what it means to be one? I just want to play baseball.'

Sawamura's breathing stills at that, his sudden wide gleaming gaze carrying a whole galaxy of stars' worth of understanding, and an expression of silent wonder as if he's just heard the most profound thing in the world. It's a bit silly because it's not that inspirational, really. He's simply being honest; it's merely Kazuya from the very core – it's every fiber of Kazuya's being.

A quiet sigh of resignation pours from his lips, and he coolly tosses the magazine back onto Sawamura's thighs. 'Fine. I'll humor you. I'm completely neutral about it,' he answers pointedly. 'Who on earth has time to take so much stock of people's opinions of them, anyway. I'd rather spend that time on the field. What you're saying, though – I mean, would it affect your baseball?'

'I wouldn't think so,' responds Sawamura immediately, a gradual frown spreading smoothly over his features like the roll of waves, and Kazuya is pleasantly surprised at how quickly the reply had come. But then an unusual ambiguity swells over his visage as if he wants to say something – a docile hesitancy and a strange, barely-there awkwardness engraved into the lines of his face, along with a slight stirring at the rigid line of his bottom lip – before he exhales and shakes his head, and settles for a modest smile, the tautness in his expression loosening. 'But, ah, you're probably right.'

Typical of him to be all golden heart and soul, made of selflessness and honesty from the inside out, to a degree that's nearly exasperating. Sawamura's always true to himself and most certainly not the kind of person to be disquieted by what other people think at all, Kazuya knows; he hasn't changed much from his high school days, still a young boy at heart, loud and brash and embarrassing in almost every respect, living day-to-day life with the same loving abandon and positivity that he puts into his pitching on the field. And yet, Kazuya had nevertheless asked and Sawamura is still giving him that same unwavering look – one of straightforward respect, faith, belief and trust above all – that he'd always graced him with every time he'd stood across from him on the mound, back in the nostalgic days of their Seidō partnership. But really, external forces can always sweep in uncontrollably like a windstorm, and the last thing he wants to see is for someone as stupidly earnest as Sawamura to get powerlessly caught in it, and he doesn't know what to think of that current comprehending gaze and faint smile other than that there's a possibility that Sawamura may just feel the same way towards him.

God, it may just be a little bit touching, although he'd never admit it, because it's not like he ever really expects anyone to spend as much time thinking of him or anything. People are always swept up in their own lives and he's his own person. It's something he shrugs at now, something he lives by like it's second nature, something he's readily accepted for a long time, for years upon years.

An obnoxiously loud yawn cuts across his thoughts; Sawamura's brows are furrowed and he's getting up from the couch in one fluid movement, publication in hand, stretching his arms. 'Okay, I've gotta go home. It's getting too late.'

'Sawamura,' replies Kazuya patiently, 'you literally live right across the hall from me; it's not like you won't get home safely.'

'I know. You don't have to say it like that,' he deadpans, bending over to return the magazine to the coffee table. 'My team's practicing really early tomorrow though, so I actually need to get some decent sleep tonight. I do want to beat you in the upcoming game, you know. Anyway, thanks for the movie and the food.'

'Stop thanking me,' Kazuya flaps his hand airily at him. 'It's weird when we do this like every week.'

Sawamura ignores this completely, and leans in and presses his lips softly to the corner of Kazuya's mouth. 'Good night.'

Not together, Kazuya thinks distantly as he watches Sawamura's back retreating, and yet it's not really some casual phase of playing around, either. But this is what they are, swirling back and forth like the flow of a current, a peculiar symbiosis of imparting and taking – a kiss readily given, and a kiss readily received, organic and unconcerned and reflexive as if it's the most natural thing in the world to them. No sweetly-voiced sentiments accompany it, just an easygoing goodbye. They've done this ambiguous dance for nearly a year, since they'd found themselves reunited as neighbors, filling their nights with veiled interlacing fingers and subtle clumsy flirtations and discreet half-empty kisses behind closed doors, and not uttering a single word about it afterwards.

There's a hazy stirring sensation within Kazuya's ribcage now, however, hidden wings slowly unfolding and brushing against the inner lines of his bones. He lets his gaze slide to his hands, upturned and open-palmed and fingers curved, laying in his lap. It's like something in the air's changed, more pronounced from the shifted weight of the magazine photograph and the unexpected conversation, perhaps. It's as if they've parted their lips and started speaking, vocal cords rousing and raspy with rebirth, for the very first time.

'Oi, Miyuki Kazuya.'

Kazuya looks up, and Sawamura is standing at his slightly-ajar door, glancing at him with a touch of interest.

'… What exactly are we?'

'More weird questions, huh? We're Miyuki Kazuya,' answers Kazuya with a raise of an eyebrow, 'and Sawamura Eijun, and we're two baseball nuts who probably love the field a little too much for our own good. But are unmistakably happy about it, anyway.'

A smile graces Sawamura's countenance at that, warm and wholehearted and genuine, reaching the sunlit luster of his eyes.

They exchange no further words, and Sawamura leaves the apartment and closes the door behind him.

He doesn't even remember exactly when it had started, really. Maybe it had been that first week that he'd moved into the building, when Sawamura had unexpectedly come knocking at his door – rustling bags of cooking ingredients hanging from the slight bends of his knuckles, face delicately flushed from having just come out of the brisk evening cold, and bright molten eyes glittering with anticipation: the first of what would become a weekly tradition, leisurely tangling their bodies in Kazuya's cheap fabric loveseat, watching movie after movie in almost-wordless companionship. Maybe it had been that first time that they'd played catch together in the nearby field since they'd found themselves neighbors, breathless with vigor and laughter, the tender contact of palms warming their skin whenever they'd passed the ball to each other hand-to-hand. Maybe it had been that time that Sawamura had come to watch Kazuya's first professional game, and he'd exuberantly laced his fingers through Kazuya's without a second thought when he'd descended from the stands to congratulate him on his win; they'd left the stadium at once before anyone could see them, slipping out through the cracks like the swirl of a breeze, hands joined discreetly between their bodies and hearts brimming with liveliness and high spirits on their way home. Or maybe it had been two weeks after that in Sawamura's kitchen, when Kazuya had just nonchalantly leaned in out of the blue and kissed the cream frosting from the side of Sawamura's mouth, and Sawamura had responded with a disgruntled scowl, slim fingertips squashing moist cake crumbs onto the soft line of Kazuya's lips so that he could return the favor.

They're scenes unfolding on a diamond-shaped theater platform set for two, an unchoreographed, unrehearsed routine without lacking the sensitive grace of whatever people define as real these days, reminding him faintly of something like ballet, perhaps. A pair of sinuously-moving bodies on the stage, a fusing partnership within the brilliant limelight, and a mingling call and response: Miyuki Kazuya and Sawamura Eijun, catcher and pitcher, as well as whatever it is that's between them now – all being pieces of their back-and-forth mutual dance with each other, their eloquent pas de deux. He doesn't really know much about that world, quite far removed from his own, but he appreciates its fluid synergy regardless, a root ingredient held in common by his baseball and his living day-to-day.

Their current plight with the magazine photograph seems to carry less weight and be more of a source of harmless amusement to their ex-teammates from Seidō, however, judging by the comments left behind in the private online group set up for the baseball club alumni.

Lol what the hell. That spiraled real fast, writes Kuramochi.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't mildly amused. Sorry – and that was the elder Kominato brother.

Chris' wisdom is a welcome sight, always one of the sensible few: Take care, you two. You wouldn't want tabloids blowing vapid gossip out of proportion.

It's alright, though. It's all fine even when Kazuya attends the next evening practice with his team and his teammates cast inquisitive, interested glances at him, tread a little lightly around him, and are somewhat more quiet and polite with him than usual, with the exception of Mei; actions presumably born from a wash of naïve curiosity. To be expected, honestly, and easy enough to shrug off.

He checks his phone during the practice's short half-time break to find a painfully typical message from Sawamura – I hope you're staying hydrated at practice. Work hard and don't screw up! – and his eyes crinkle at the corners just reading it, and everything definitely feels okay.

'We lost,' moans Sawamura dejectedly, a touch of misery in the droop of his half-lidded eyes.

'It was just a practice game,' replies Kazuya evenly, setting his mitt into place. 'Come on, pitch already.'

Sawamura complies, determinedly throwing to him with that brainlessly dismal expression still somewhat-comically plastered over his features, and thankfully the pitch is as boldly steady as ever, the ball's weight and pressure firm and near-hot, the resounding smack solid within the curve of Kazuya's glove.

'It still sucks,' he mopes self-pityingly, a faint jut to his bottom lip, looking almost petulant. 'I hate losing.'

Who doesn't, thinks Kazuya, throwing the ball back at him – and he only just misses it; his hand fumbles and the ball rebounds animatedly off his glove and drops to the earth, its continuing subdued bounce and level after-roll a quiet rustling in the dirt.

'I mean, you're up next, too,' Sawamura continues with a spirited flail of his hands, wholly ignoring the ball at his feet now. An unusual tremor rolls behind the inflection of his words, and a mild flush trickles over the tips of his ears. 'I just – I want to give it my best. Especially since I know you will too. Even if you win, I don't want it to be because I sucked on the day.'

Two separate Tokyo teams set in opposition against each other, head to head, a simultaneous fierceness and friendliness in the bittersweet flavor of their rivalry: there's something subtly poetic about it, maybe, an enthralling tale of romance on the diamond stage, a battle born of a shared ardor for a sport to which both sides devote all their vulnerable love. How most fitting for Sawamura, whose entire being is filled up from corner to corner with his heart, currently standing there with shallow breaths and curled lips and a barely-there unsteady hesitancy in the long lines of his fingers – so characteristically earnest, so untaintedly honest, so Sawamura.

Kazuya doesn't say anything at all, and Sawamura shifts uneasily from foot to foot.

'… How do you do it?'

The crisp chill of the evening air nips at his ears and the very tip of his nose, but Kazuya gives an unconcerned sniff. 'Do what?'

'Do – that. That crap that you're pulling right now. How you can be so cold, but stay so …'

He trails off, a stupidly lax expression of bare confusion on his face like he doesn't quite know what word to use. And in a hazy fantasy, Kazuya thinks he hears it. Human.

It's blood pumping in rhythm through slick garnet tangles of veins – actuality, truth, slowly stripped as bare as secret indulgent words scrawled in loose diary pages, the part of him that lives in harmony alongside the Kazuya of the nasty personality and the wide toothy smirks; he always undresses himself, opens himself up and takes himself apart, naked bones and muscle and skin, on the field. Miyuki Kazuya, baseball player, catcher: his true identity. Always. For all time.

He pictures Sawamura saying it, saying he's human, with a childlike wrinkle to his nose and a warm sincerity to his gaze, the unblemished honesty of a young boy who always wears his heart on his sleeve. Yet it doesn't come; he still looks naïvely clueless for words, soft lips pursed and round eyes lustrously yellow-lit. Kazuya chews down on his tongue – the local football field they're standing in is suddenly so much quieter somehow, its wide expanse empty, all wind and shadows and earth and nothing else.

'… I don't know. I'm not really good with this kind of stuff. You still really suck, but at the same time, the way you are with this – and the way you can just take things as they come –' and Sawamura pauses then, breathless. 'It can be kind of amazing.'

The temperate words roll delicately off his teeth, spill from the same lips that often scowl at him, that habitually banter stubbornly with him and declare him twisted, that can snap out his full name like it's a vulgarity; the same lips that utter modest heartfelt words with a loud fiery voice, that crease tenderly at the edges when they curl up into a smile, that have left countless feather-light kisses against Kazuya's mouth and the curve of his jawline.

Sawamura's eyes, fixed on him, are so sunny against the evening darkness; and just like that, the field around them isn't quite so empty and silent anymore.

'You're so ridiculous, seriously,' Kazuya utters in an exhale. 'You were all miserable before and for some reason it turned into you encouraging and praising me. Only you would pull that.'

Because he's a golden-hearted boy, continuously giving and giving without expecting to take anything in return, even in the hour when he needs it the most. That part of him has never changed from his high school days, and presumably never will. And underneath all the musing over being human, that, Kazuya knows, is a gracefully breathtaking picture of humanity.

'I won't make it a habit if you're going to be such a prick about it, so don't get too comfortable,' Sawamura frowns, finally bending over to pick up the ball from the ground. He stuffs it haphazardly into his jacket pocket, unwittingly fashioning a ludicrous round bulge, muttering: 'Anyway, mind if we call it a night? I kinda want to go for a run.'

'It's pretty late,' Kazuya replies, a twist to his mouth. 'Need me to come with you?'

'Nah, I'll be fine. You should go home and get some sleep,' says Sawamura, walking across to him and leisurely passing his mitt over into the open arc of Kazuya's own. 'I mean, you have early practice tomorrow, right? You'll need it.'

'Alright. Send me a text when you're back,' murmurs Kazuya, 'so I'd know you got home.'

It's like little dance steps, the natural way their hands reach forward just slightly alongside their bodies at the same time, backs of knuckles gently making contact, the touch lingering fleetingly there; and then faintly nudging and lacing through, fingers resting lightly between fingers, skin warm against skin. Hands just barely entangled in one another's for a prolonged moment that still manages to feel so sorely brief: a goodnight kiss of the fingertips.

The mild color unfurling almost-demurely over the rise of Sawamura's cheeks and the low, abrupt hitch in his breathing and are curiosities Kazuya hasn't seen in this particular shape before – the steady face unsmiling, but looking almost thrilled. How novel. Or maybe he's just reading too much from what he's seeing; but then again, there's an unusual stirring in the pit of his stomach and his own breaths are suddenly catching in his throat, too.

Sawamura gives his palm a mellow squeeze and slowly pulls back before he turns around and jogs away, and somehow the chilly evening air no longer bites at Kazuya as coldly it did before.

Sports Fan Community Gripped By Catcher-Pitcher Photograph.

A twitchy, concerned phone call from his agent later, and Kazuya's early morning vigor falls slightly, the muscles beneath his eyes loose and wilting. So a smattering of the cheapest low-end tabloid publications have evidently caught on to the unusual stirring of activity in the online message boards; how inane, he thinks, eyeing the magazine stand with dull apathy. For a brief moment, he wonders if Sawamura has seen these headlines, if he's received the same kind of call from his own agent – but it's okay, he muses, because surely someone who's all heart has enough faith in his own truths to be able to take these as they come. Yeah, Sawamura will be alright.

Giving a bland and dismissive sniff, Kazuya shifts the strap of his sports bag higher upon the taut angle of his shoulder and smoothly strides away.

Mei doesn't stop looking across at him as they're doing batting drills together an hour later, however, large blue eyes too bright and inquisitive and pink lips thoughtfully pursed, as if there's something he just sees. Which is a little disquieting to some extent, but not atypical; Mei's sharp perception is often underestimated when it's so habitually hidden behind that perpetually youthful smile, and years upon years of mutual respect and faithful keen-eyed scrutiny of one another's progresses has meant that he's always been able to read Kazuya better than most.

'… Kazuya,' the blond says in a level tone. 'You're on fire today.'

'Oh? Thank you,' Kazuya answers, lips parting, mouth stretching outwards into a wide, playful grin. And the flat, unimpressed face of mild distaste that Mei gives him upon glimpsing it is nearly comical, and quite worth it.

'Seriously, your hits are amazing today,' Mei deadpans, pale fingers curling a little tighter around the curve of his own bat. 'No offence, but I'm trying to say that they're not usually this outstanding.'

'Is that so?'

Another rapid movement of wind, another fiery pitch, and Kazuya's eyes are pulled to it like gravity for the nth time, bones and muscles shifting, lithe and wiry and bending hotly to his will. Another fluid swing, another resounding metallic crack, another solid hit; Mei coolly glances over and follows the trajectory of the ball as it soars evenly away, slanting his mouth.

'Such absurd concentration and focus levels,' the blond mumbles under a breath, giving a little shake of his head. 'Something you're wanting to push out of mind? The media circus, maybe?'

Kazuya stops and immediately raises his hand at that, a signal to pause the coming pitches. 'Look, just so you know,' he utters patiently, 'I'm completely neutral about that. It's all brainless, but people say what they want to say. In the end, I just want to play. Their opinions about me hold no weight over me.'

'Sure,' answers Mei, eyeballing him pointedly, raising his own hand in an echo of the same signal. 'But that won't keep you from wanting your partner safe, will it.'

The raucous chatter of his other busy teammates resonate around him, but a muted haze falls over their surroundings, and Kazuya barely hears them; his tongue stills. Instead, the spirited ring of bright young voices from a time long past reverberates suddenly in a dream: euphoric freedom on the diamond of Seidō, with wind in his lungs and sunshine warming his face and his old teammates filling up the space all around him – Chris' gentle wisdom, Kuramochi's rowdy merriment, Furuya's fervent aura, everyone, all of them, roused with life and stirring on the field like the flutter of wings. And that golden-eyed boy, with youthful dreams as big as mountains and unreserved love as deep as oceans, funneling cheer and vivacity into everyone that his flaming loud voice touches, giving Kazuya that smile and that look of unfaltering belief and faith that emanates like light all the way from the mound. It's a trusting gaze freely given to him, a gaze he freely receives and instills into his play every time: that's their deadly battery, their steadfast partnership. Kazuya's always felt driven to ensure Sawamura's safety. Partners – there's something gracefully intimate about that word, maybe.

Yet what is intimacy, really, he thinks distantly. His old boyhood home had been colored by dimly-lit empty hallways and the hollow rustling of television static, and all the days of his schooling had been filled up with concentrated focus in classes, wholehearted focus in baseball, and wordless solitary lunchtimes. He'd led and been part of a passionate team that had had a seamless rapport what with their shared heart for their sport, however; he wonders if that's adequate. Is that intimacy enough to say that he's known its taste?

A pale picture suddenly fades in behind his eyes: a mental afterimage of himself with Sawamura, arms closely curled sideways around each other and bodies delicately pressed together, sharing a half-lidded gaze and full-hearted smile that nearly everyone around him has said, in too-audible whispers, is not the kind exchanged between ordinary friends – that candid magazine photograph.

'Oh my God,' Mei mutters, kneading the space between his eyebrows. 'Are you pining?'

'Are you listening to yourself,' replies Kazuya in a monotone, incredulous. 'Do I look like the kind of person who pines?'

'Okay, whatever,' the blond says, flailing his hand dismissively at him. 'Just know this, yeah. I've wanted you as my damn catcher for years. You turned me down in middle school and I lived through high school and college and I never would've guessed that the two of us would end up being scouted by the same team to play professionally, but here we are now. You can take it as a compliment, since you're a brat, when I say that I'm gripping onto this so tightly it's like I'm holding on with my life. I'm not planning to share you with anyone – except for him. Because I understand. Shut up and go make the most of that.'

Kazuya pauses fleetingly at that, blinking. His mouth creases, lips pressing and wrinkling together; then he releases a wavering breath through his nose and nearly laughs. He doesn't, but Mei seemingly understands, anyway, passing him a childishly stony look before giving a signal of his hand and raising his bat again.

His phone chimes in his pocket on his way home that afternoon – a notification from the Seidō baseball club alumni online group, to which Isashiki posts the comment: I'm late to the party, but damn, tone it down, guys – and Kazuya doesn't understand why, but he suddenly really feels like seeing Sawamura, right then, following all he's been through that day. Tone what down, exactly? he thinks later, in the shower; whatever it is between them, as comforting as it is that it has no categorizing names or labels to it, still has no understandable shape or form at this point, either.

'Oh—? Miyuki? I wasn't expecting you,' says Sawamura through the gap of his doorway not twenty minutes after that, pupils large and wide, mouth rounded with distinct confusion. The expression quickly fades into a mock-pinched one, however, all narrowed eyes and hollowed cheeks and a flash of teeth, and he jokingly bites out: 'You're not invited.'

'Jerk,' murmurs Kazuya bluntly, one corner of his lips curving upwards lopsidedly. 'I was just in the mood to stop by.'

'Fine. You want tea or something? I'll heat up the kettle.'

Sawamura smoothly sweeps him in and closes the door behind them, and somehow, there's a strange heavy finality to that click; heat radiates suddenly from beneath the collar of Kazuya's shirt, and a restlessness trickles over the tips of his fingers.

'Oh, by the way, I won't be able to come over for our usual movie night this Saturday,' Sawamura continues, eyebrows furrowed with some measure of disappointment. 'My agent wants to come over and sort out some papers or something, I don't know. Think you can handle one weekend without me?'

'Sure,' Kazuya replies, looking at him through his lashes. 'Two movies the weekend after to make up for it.'

And then, he allows himself to let go.

He takes a step forward, catching only a glimpse of the mellow surprise gracing Sawamura's features; but he moves in, fingers curling tenderly over the mild curve of Sawamura's hips, and presses his mouth delicately to the supple area of cheek just in front of Sawamura's ear. His eyelids leisurely slide to a close and his touch lingers there for a sustained moment, sighs heated against skin and soft wisps of hair falling against the tip of his nose, before he withdraws gradually, just slightly enough to run his lips over the rise of Sawamura's cheekbone – feather-light, barely a touch at all. He slowly opens his eyes and pulls back, and Sawamura's face is pleasantly flushed, yellow-lit gaze wide and glimmering, breath spilling through his teeth in shallow pants; long pitcher's fingers skim up, then, coiling around both of Kazuya's upper arms, a deceptively soft grip with all the telltale gravity from Sawamura's weighted expression laying behind it.

'Miyuki, I—' he's pink, colored all the way down to the line of his throat, and he lets out a warm, quivering laugh of easygoing pleasure. 'What on earth was that?'

The way he asks that makes it sound like there's something different than usual, and Kazuya is left vaguely wondering if that is the case.

'Just felt like it,' he responds with a teasingly pointed look, shaking his head. 'I had a really long day at practice.'

A single hand leaves his arm and languidly moves up to his jaw, blunt fingernails flitting faintly across his skin, traveling up to his hair, lean fingertips entwining themselves there.

'Idiot. Good job on the hard work,' is Sawamura's breathless reply; the temperate smile has already long slipped away from his face, but Kazuya hears it like tinkling wind chimes in his voice either way.

Kazuya doesn't remember a time when his apartment's been so silent.

So vast, so wide, so boundless, so much space. Floor and walls and ceiling spread so far apart with nothing in between. Pale shadows scarcely splashed upon the corners, a single ticking clock muted by invisible cotton wool. So unsettling, so quiet.

On any other Saturday, Sawamura would be here. Loud and stupid and boisterous, filling the expanse with heat. Warm and spirited and tangible, filling the capacious stretch with the far-reaching edges of a crooked smile. He's at home today, across the hall. Two walls and a world apart.

It's a small studio apartment built for one. Kazuya comes home to no one every day. He spends most of his evenings in solitude, breathes in seclusion, sleeps alone. But today, the place is empty.

Why.

He knows why. Words don't take form in his mind like handwritten scrawls in a book, and neither his tongue nor his head need to voice it aloud – it already undulates within him, all over, pulsating lifeblood coursing through slippery webs of veins. His body thrums with it like the trill of a birdsong, lifting the hairs on his nape, curling his toes, quivering through layers of skin, shimmering white-gold at the surface; half-light swells in his chest cavity, leaks through the cracks of his ribcage, fire so stout from a space so small. He simply knows, otherwise he may not be here, where the muscles and sinews of his legs have stretched and moved and brought him, like rhythmic steps in timed response to the call of music.

A danseur noble makes his regal entrance on the stage: the moment he descends from the stands is, humorously to him, like a scene right out of a theatrical fairy story.

Because all eyes, at an instant, are lured to him – wide, perplexed, wary, apprehensive stares tinted with slivers of wonder. And it's no surprise, really, considering he's the catcher of the rival team set to contend against them next; not to mention the addition of the stir over the magazine photograph, which surely a great portion of the Japanese baseball community must be aware of by now. He spares no further thought to that, however, because the moment he spies the familiar tousle of brown hair and gawky long limbs, Sawamura manages to fill up his field of vision simply by being – just like that day, when the photograph had been taken; just like their Saturday evenings, warmly nestled against each other on Kazuya's loveseat; just like those days when Sawamura had stood across from him on the mound, a burning presence, returning his focused gaze with equal fervor. Sawamura turns, a small, lithe pivot from his feet like he's joined this dance; thin eyebrows raise and lips curl with some subdued degree of surprise, and gleaming eyes round out with recognition as they touch upon him.

'What the hell, Miyuki Kazuya,' he utters almost inaudibly, giving Kazuya a clouded glance, that full name dripping torpidly off his tongue like it's both an obscenity and a guilty delicacy; but then the muscles start expanding in his face in a look of self-awareness, as if he's regaining his senses, and he turns to his flummoxed teammates and his coach, exclaiming: 'Ah – it's okay, everyone! He's not here to spy! Uh, he just came to pick me up – we're actually neighbors!'

That evidently does nothing to pacify their obvious curiosities, however, because there's no shift whatsoever to the inquisitiveness in their expressions. Kazuya coolly bends his mouth into an easy smirk and collectively gives them all a bold, pointed look, and Sawamura springs over to him, mildly flustered, a mixture of reluctant interest and confusion in his countenance.

'How long have you been here?' he asks in a low voice, an uncharacteristic restraint rumbling lightly between his words.

'Probably fifteen minutes,' answers Kazuya offhandedly, dimly regarding him with barely-shrouded amusement. 'I actually did come to pick you up. But mostly, I just wanted to watch you play.'

A discreetly perverse pleasure trickles down all the bones of his spine when he perceives, in his peripheral vision, that Sawamura's teammates have awkwardly turned their faces away upon hearing his words, like they're only just rousing to the awareness that they're standing in the vicinity of something exquisitely private. In all honesty, for the fleeting seconds that he'd laid his attention on Sawamura, he'd nearly forgotten their presence there. Sawamura's cheekbones swiftly go awash with a pale splash of color – how absurdly endearing – and he gauchely grasps Kazuya at his knuckles and pulls him along by his fingers, to a space a little further away, out of earshot.

'You're such an ass, oh my God –' he splutters in a whisper, a slight pinch creasing the tautness of his face. 'Stop looking so pleased, for crying out loud. They all know about the photograph. Sure, I always let them talk, but that doesn't mean we should just happily give them more gossip.'

Kazuya shrugs nonchalantly at that. 'It was the truth, though,' he says evenly. 'I really did want to watch you. Feels kind of nostalgic, actually. I haven't caught your pitches in a real game since Seidō.'

Sawamura stills briefly at that, his visage a picture of breathless awe. A myriad of open emotions darts across his features, unguarded and deliciously telltale; and then he raises slim fingers to his brows and kneads the space between them, lines etching themselves into the corners of his eyes in some measure of pain. 'That is – actually really sweet, it's … for heaven's sake. I hate you so much. You're unbelievable.'

A wily grin unrolls cleanly across Kazuya's face. 'Ah? Thank you.'

'It's not a compliment,' Sawamura bites out with emphasis, pulling his cap sloppily from his head and drearily letting it drop to his feet, dragging his hand tightly down his nose and mouth in near-resignation.

The team coach hazily calls out something indistinct, and players start gradually scattering; they're all silently gathering up equipment with nimble efficiency and heading towards the exits, liquid streams of white uniforms pouring away through the doors like a spilling of milk. Kazuya's lips quirk in muted gratification – he'd timed himself just right: they're all leaving.

'I, ah, I actually meant it,' says Sawamura suddenly, gracelessly rubbing the back of his head; his hair elevates weightlessly into bizarre, skewed angles, and a disgruntled glower unfurls over his cheeks. 'Some of these guys occasionally have parents coming to visit or girlfriends bringing lunches during break times, but … with my family being so far away it's not like I really get anyone visiting me at practice, ever. So … thanks, I suppose.'

'Stop it. You sound like you're hurting yourself, good grief. You can thank me by doing your best to beat me into the ground in the upcoming game, yeah?' answers Kazuya with the raise of an eyebrow, reaching out a single hand and stroking the wild disarray of Sawamura's hair back down – a serene caress. 'Playing as fiercely as you always did, all those years ago, together with me.'

Fingertips convulse at the reminiscence of that lethal battery: there's a smarting pang and a bittersweet wistfulness to that delicate memory, as unreservedly treasured as a half-faded photograph. He wonders if he'll ever relive the thrill of playing a real game as Sawamura's partner again – of being his pillar of support in the catcher's box; of receiving those hot, firm pitches sturdily in his glove, over and over and over; of being graced by Sawamura's far-reaching smile, sunny and eager, from over at the mound. That's a conversation for another day, Kazuya thinks. It's okay, because for now, that smile is still being freely given to him day-to-day, painting his thoughts and memories, tangling within his heartstrings, descending into the bottomless pools of his belly. There's silence in the field now, the last of the players having quietly filed out, but the waves surging in Kazuya's chest rumbles loudly in his ears.

'Look at that,' he murmurs, his voice hoarse; a quaver sweeps over the base of his throat. The tide rises, rises, inflates and expands like an ocean behind the rigid line of his breastbone, swallowing his heart whole. It tastes pungently like urgency, like desperation, like terrified hope. 'We're finally alone.'

Exasperation fills the lines on Sawamura's face. 'Honestly – Miyuki –'

And in that moment, it's like the dam breaks, wood splintering at its cracks and slowly shattering apart, bringing that wall that he's progressively built up over the years down, down, crumbling down to pieces. And Sawamura sees it like it's second nature, his pupils dilating, muscles slackening at the precise moment of comprehension, pink smearing his ears and the slender ridge of his nose – and Kazuya is in so deep, sinking far beneath the surface, gone. Hands loosely reach forward, fingers winding around Sawamura's; he steps in, closing the bare breath of distance between them. Cheek presses against cheek, tender and supple, a solace.

'Sawamura,' he starts in a shallow exhale, and that muffled uncertainty still betrays his voice. He tries again: 'Sawamura. I—'

His tongue stills, and his throat goes dry, and his mouth can't form any noise. Countless phrases flit across the forefront of his mind, but there's no helping him; nothing fits seamlessly, nothing that he can think of sounds just right. It must be a day worthy of being marked in history, he thinks, when Miyuki Kazuya, of all people, is left lost for words. But Sawamura draws back slightly; he pulls away from the intertwined hooking of their fingers and brings his hands up to frame Kazuya's jawline, the cushions of his palms soft at the sides of Kazuya's neck, roughened knuckles brushing sensitively against the backs of Kazuya's earlobes.

'It's fine,' he comes forward, bringing the tips of their noses together; heated breaths mingle between them, warm and stirring and full of life. 'It's okay. I know.'

And Kazuya suddenly understands everything, right then. He understands why they share little kisses at night and are comfortable enough to never talk about it, why they don't label themselves with weird petty titles like couple or boyfriends even despite their gestures behind closed doors, why he can't say anything right now that feels like it has exactly the right ring to it. Because in the end, there's something between them that has such an inconceivable depth and intricacy to it that it can't be described with words so easily – it's the reason why they've never expressed sugary sentiments like I like you aloud before; the words don't really feel like enough, and things just aren't that simple, not after all they've been through together. Nearly seven years of complex history lies between them, colored with shared breathless laughter and painful tears and every shade of every ardent emotion beneath the sun, being whatever it is they may be: teammates, partners, brothers, kindred spirits, friends, or even more. Much, much more. And a prickling heat spreads in Kazuya's chest because it all lies beyond poetry and sentences and yet he fully understands, and Sawamura's answer had made it clear that he fully understands too, even though they both haven't really said anything.

'Do you think we're—?'

'Yeah,' Sawamura breathes. '… Yeah. If you want it.'

Kazuya releases a clipped puff of air through his nose in incredulity, but there's no real callousness behind it. 'Stupid. What do you think.'

The bait is laid there for their usual cozy banter, something that Kazuya is distantly aware he's sometimes taken advantage of – a piece of armor to encase all vulnerably exposed flesh, a defense mechanism, a safety blanket – for a number of situations over the years; but Sawamura unexpectedly doesn't rise to it at all. 'Just stop closing yourself off,' he admonishes, modestly pulling back. 'I'll show you anything you want, so you can show me everything too. You can show me you. That shouldn't be too hard, right? I mean, you're one of the most human people I know.'

Kazuya stops for a moment then, mystified. He stares at the resolute face in front of him fleetingly, blood pumping dim and deep in his ears; and then he lets out a quiet laugh that briefly snags on the knot fading from his throat, a subtle hitch that feels pleasant all the same, as if he's just learning how to breathe again. How easily that word slips from Sawamura's tongue when it comes with no careful forethought, like it's the most natural and instinctive and honest thing in the world. In the end, they're both as human as human can get.

'Right.'

He lifts a lean hand and takes his time, long fingers slowly encircling the palm that's rested against his jawline, cradling it temperately in his own; he brings it forward, running his lips delicately over the base of Sawamura's thumb, and then skimming down, little by little, to the inside of his wrist. A weightless sigh slips past Kazuya's teeth, warming the steady pulse thrumming beneath Sawamura's skin, their proof that they're both here, right now, both so full and alive. And that's all it takes, because Sawamura's breath catches low in his chest; he draws their joined hands aside, moving in like the pull of strings – and Kazuya comes and meets him halfway, in an air-light kiss more gentle than the fluttering of silk, breathless and soft, but bears the density of everything between them, and holds the weight of everything they both carry inside. A first kiss, transcending all the easy, casual kisses before it, graceful and faultless and lovely.

Not a single sound rings out around them, and no words are said aloud.

They still hear everything.

Ruler-straight hair and polished square eyeglasses frame a narrow, angular face, but she's different from someone like Rei. She's made of outwardly chilly regard emanating from faux-warm eyes; a crisp, biting musk of branded perfume; pressed suit, pressed trousers, and gleaming thin stilettos of creaking patent leather. Dusky scrutiny drips like quiet serpents from the sweeping bends of her lower eyelashes, a focus as graciously fierce as that of any enemy batter that's stood before him on the field – an impeccably detached picture of judgment and politics layered between eagerly-narrowed eyelids; a frosty, sharp image of intelligence and logic flitting in the shadowed cracks of a wolfish smile.

'You're a stunning player now, Miyuki-san,' she drawls keenly, ballpoint pen tastefully poised between slender fingers. 'But apparently you really came to be during your high school years, didn't you.'

Oversized hot lights burn brightly in a too-small space, smoldering pitilessly at his cheekbones, but everything else is almost eerily cold. Silence from the faceless man behind the big black camera. Silence from the hollow-eyed boy holding the boom microphone. And there's the lady journalist, with intricately measured calculations behind every sweet word and every honeyed gaze. He visualizes enclosing them all within a giant picture frame: a perfect portrait of media in nature.

'I'd probably say so,' answers Kazuya in a level voice. And it's funny, really, because he thinks it's possible that he may have been efficient to an extraordinary degree – moving smoothly from high school, to college, to professional baseball without blinking an eye, still forming cozy bonds with each set of teammates briefly in passing, and still claiming victories on the way – an efficiency that floats him from one port to the next without any anchorage; and yet, in some way, he's never felt his day-to-day life to be as secure, settled and anchored as he does now, after everything he and Sawamura have endured. 'My enthusiasm for baseball goes a lot further back than that, though. From my boyhood, essentially.'

'I'm more interested in your Seidō years than your childhood, truth be told,' the lady purrs succinctly through red-glossed, half-pouted lips, 'because it seems like a lot of your history stems from there. And you've just won a spectacular victory against Hokkaido recently, haven't you.'

'Indeed,' replies Kazuya evenly, giving her a bland look. 'Good timing to mention this, because I reckon I've recently come to better … appreciate or acknowledge my past, I guess? I don't know – my life seems full enough right now. I wouldn't be the person I am now without having first been the player I was back then, and I wouldn't have won recent victories without the triumphs and losses I've undergone before. I work intensively hard for it, although I'm here because of the support of teammates, too.'

Though he knows himself better than he may want to; a sliver of some form of wanting, a muffled nagging sensation of an indefinable absence, may have always colored his words every time he speaks of his total impartiality towards the magazine photograph predicament, every time he makes another open claim that his life can't possibly be richer than it is just standing on the field. There's a placid, contorted swirling low in his belly, like cold water slowly trickling around stones, when his mind distantly touches the thought that the ties that devotedly fasten all teammates together can't always fill spaces left empty around him – wide yawning gaps that he's always flickered his eyes away from, that he's always locked away and smeared over with the delight of playing baseball throughout the years.

He and Sawamura haven't been on the same team for a long time, though; his eyelids had skimmed open somewhere along the way without him noticing, and he'd laid a serene gaze on Sawamura from a plane separate to that of the bond of teammates, and suddenly it had been easier to see which puzzle pieces fit, somehow. He wonders where those gaping chasms are now, that he's buried deep inside, and he can't find them. They're gone. Truly filled, maybe.

'That's very interesting,' a half-crooned syrupy sentiment, a purposeful low-lidded look. 'And pitcher Sawamura Eijun was one of those teammates, wasn't he.'

He gives her a dull, stony glance; he's guessed that this question may be coming since before they'd stepped into his home, since the moment they'd called up to arrange the interview in the first place, possibly. So not even a professional, respected sports reporter will actively swerve a potential headliner, however gossip-based. 'That's right.'

'Is that so. I'm sure you know there's been quite a heated debate in the fan community recently regarding your ambiguous connection with him. Is that something you'd like to address?'

… You're one of the most human people I know.

He takes an unhurried breath – a deep inhale, a long exhale, a swell of expanding muscle and unfurling of susurrating wings just before taking flight; he doesn't even realize that his eyelids have fallen to a close until he's leisurely fluttering them open again. 'Yeah,' he murmurs unfalteringly. 'I'm clearing that up right now.'

If anyone ever asks, in the future, whether or not he regrets this moment, he'll always resolutely answer that he doesn't. Baseball has always dotingly chipped at the diamond-hard stone of his skin, pulling the crumbling layers back and peeling it all away such that his mortal flesh is the form that plays on the field: the real Miyuki Kazuya, as helplessly uncovered and bare as he'd been birthed. And possibly, now, he's also sliding his eyes closed to any veiled trepidation: throwing caution to the wind and leaving himself in Sawamura's tender hands, unraveling the pulsing tissue of his own heart, strip by strip, until he exposes the hidden corner where Sawamura has slipped in unnoticed and formed into a piece of him, where all his truths and his baseball has always been a part of him, where he is truly, truly him – a trusting surrender of terrifying eloquence. He regrets nothing, even after he receives his agent's frantic phone call two hours later. Even after his coach actually comes all the way to his apartment to give him a long, humorless, exasperated talking-to the next morning. Even after Mei messages him to tell him he's a damn fool; but an admirable one with guts.

And he knows he'll never forget seeing Sawamura on his television screen, casually buying a drink at a street vending machine after his evening practice, a transitory moment of unknowing innocence and short-lived quietude before he's suddenly, unexpectedly inundated by a flurry of tabloid reporters; a humorous look of petrified surprise crosses his features when he turns as they descend thunderously upon him like a stampede, fiery exclamations of 'Miyuki Kazuya has confirmed that his relationship with you is—' and 'Will you give a statement regarding Miyuki Kazuya's claims—' and 'Can you shed light on Miyuki Kazuya's assertions—' all animatedly scrambled together amidst the jumble of bodies in a heated, flustered disarray.

Sawamura's brief perplexed expression, guiltless and childlike, gradually gives way to a glistening peal of laughter, a radiant shower of falling stars tumbling from the length of his tongue, blithe and carefree like this is the funniest and most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to him. The heat of a liquid gold gaze and a sparkling bright voice reaches all the way into the depths of Kazuya's stomach, tendrils unfolding and sweeping against the inside of his skin – even from behind the distantly cold glass wall of live television.

Kazuya knows how the earth works. It turns endlessly and blurred figures keep breathing, walking, living; night rolls over into day, day into night, and time trickles innumerable grains of sand to infinity. And people are the way they are: there will always be those that may disapprove of them. There will always be those that may try to knock them down, to hurt them. But his chest is full to bursting, the core of his body pulsating, teeming with all the belief in the world that they can readily take anything that comes like a ball to a mitt or a bat to a ball – a stupidly youthful conviction, perhaps, but one that comes from being honest to themselves beyond measure – standing side-by-side as they had always done on the skirts of the field: partners until the very end.

No regrets.

'… So, my coach wasn't angry. But he wasn't exactly pleased, either. He lectured me for an hour straight or something. I nearly fell asleep,' complains Sawamura, cheeks hollowed and lips pushed halfway into a juvenile pout; he vaguely kicks at a stray pebble at his feet mid-walk, and the abrupt scrape of the rubber outsole against the concrete rasps abrasively amidst the evening quiet. 'But good news! He and my agent and the corporate president all had a talk together and I'm not getting kicked off the team. That has to count for something, right?'

'How sad must your life be when not getting fired is considered a triumph,' sighs Kazuya in a resigned tone, fingers coming up to push his eyeglasses back against his nose. 'But I'm not getting kicked off my team, either, which I should count my blessings for, I suppose. My coach was pretty nice about it, but I got a lecture, too.'

All of a sudden, Sawamura moves and jostles him fervidly, bumping into his side and knocking his bones; Kazuya half-topples in a near-loss of his footing, but judging by the scowl of irritability sweeping over Sawamura's face, he's turning a completely blind eye to it.

'You're a dick, you know that,' he snaps out, entirely unimpressed. 'I can't believe you just dropped a bomb like that on camera without talking to me first. That was so inconsiderate. I'm really mad at you, I hope you realize.'

'I guess I do owe you an apology for that,' chuckles Kazuya acceptingly. And he is terribly sorry, yet also not sorry: he's willingly piloted himself with logic and rationality all his life, each step measured and each action calculated, gears spinning endlessly within programmed mechanics; and for once, he'd shed the plastic casings for a passing moment, cast away the long webs of copper cords and walked into the outstretched arms of mortal emotion – steel and rubber and glass transfiguring into human flesh and blood, computations metamorphosing into sensations, machine mutating into man: a biblical miracle born of whispered prayers of grace. He can feel all of it like his nerve endings have been fire-lit, like he's seeping through the pores of his own skin. And it's good.

'… Never mind. You being all nice is actually kind of creepy,' Sawamura drones impassively, eyeing him sideways with distaste. 'It's always so much easier to be annoyed at you. But, ugh, I can't help it, I'm disgusting and soft and I do forgive you. You told everyone what I was to you like there's no shame in it. How can I possibly stay mad at you forever.'

Kazuya's mouth curves into a faint smile at that; he reaches over and calmly pinches Sawamura's elbow, prompting a sharp, pained hiss and a ferocious glower from him. The brat may be stupidly embarrassing a lot of the time, but by no means a source of shame. Never, not even close. Daft boy, so senseless, so modest.

He wraps an arm securely around Sawamura's waist, and Sawamura easily returns the gesture without a second thought, his arm crossed comfortably beneath Kazuya's. Kazuya crinkles his eyes and gives Sawamura's hip an additional good-natured bump with his own, uttering: 'Well, one good thing to come out of this is that after all the commotion dies down, any talk about us will go back to primarily being about our gameplays, instead of things that aren't people's business. It's not like they can speculate any more over something that we've both already confirmed on TV, right?'

The response he gets is the stretch of a wide grin, a sliver of air escaping keenly from between white rows of teeth. There's no going back, Kazuya almost says, but he knows he doesn't need to. Warmth tenderly fills his lungs, expands in his chest; it's transparent enough, even from a momentary glimpse, that Sawamura won't have it any other way.

A cheery tinkle chimes unexpectedly from Sawamura's pocket, with a mild burst of vibration against Kazuya's hand; the expression Sawamura's wearing instantly droops and he slowly, reluctantly digs in and fishes his phone out with apprehension etched into every line of his face, as though he can guess what's coming. 'Sixty-four new comment notifications from the Seidō alumni group now. Wow, no wonder you turned yours off,' he grouses tonelessly, offhandedly snapping the phone shut and stuffing it back into his pocket with graceless indifference. 'I'm sure it'll be funny to watch them all losing it, but I really don't feel like dealing with this right now. What the hell did you actually say in the interview, anyway? I haven't been home since yesterday except to sleep. I haven't watched it yet.'

'I just said that we do have some degree of a thing. I waggled my eyebrows a little. I didn't need to say any more than that, and I refused to, anyway. Which is fine, since I got the point across.'

It's apparent that that sounds preposterous even to Sawamura, of all people, because his mouth skews and he doesn't look the least bit moved. 'Stop messing around.'

'I'm not,' Kazuya frowns, wrinkling his nose in displeasure. 'Go watch it. That's literally what I said and did. Afterwards I also said all this stuff about your growth as a player, but as usual, the media seems only to want to focus on the gossip.'

A temporary silence envelops them, filled in only by the crunching of their footsteps on the cement path; Sawamura's brow wrinkles and his eyes gradually narrow into thin slits as he evidently attempts to roll it all over in his mind.

'… A thing,' he repeats flatly.

'Well, what else could I have said on camera, really,' retorts Kazuya in a dry tone. 'I mean, what are we?'

'I thought you had all the answers? We're Sawamura Eijun,' Sawamura coolly points out with a quirk to the corners of his lips, 'and Miyuki Kazuya, and it turns out we might actually like each other a hell of a lot more than we let on – and we're still a pair of baseball nuts who'll never, ever stop loving being on the field. Right?'

'Like', huh. That word still isn't exactly enough, and things still go far beyond that and aren't that simple, Kazuya thinks. Who knows if there are any words in all the languages of the earth that can faultlessly illustrate exactly what they have, priceless and weighty and warm between them; maybe one day they'll find something that rings just right, but for now, he supposes that like sounds okay. It's coming from Sawamura's mouth, anyway; there's a reverberating echo of so much more nestled behind the word than it actually describes when Sawamura's the one saying it. A prickle of curiosity itches at the layers of his skin, now, leaving him to wonder how the word may taste on his own tongue, too – Sawamura will always funnel so much into it, and Kazuya can only wholeheartedly do the same in return.

'Oh? That's new,' he grins, a singsong tone of merriment in his voice. 'I actually do really like you, you know – for some reason I can't even explain – but all I ever hear from you are complaints about how much you hate me orhow much you can't stand me or how unbelievable I am. I'm hurt.'

'Well, for just one day, we can pretend to be normal people and say it,' grumbles Sawamura, touches of pink swelling over the ridge of his nose and the slight jut of his cheekbones. 'I can't imagine why, but I do really like you too. Oh, gross. You better memorize that because who knows when I'll willingly say something so mushy again. Especially to you.'

'You little brat,' Kazuya laughs, prodding Sawamura's side sharply with two fingers. Sawamura yelps and twists away from him, clumsy and gangling and a serpentine mess of limbs; and in split seconds, it all descends to a jumble of knotted elbows and hearty, rose-tinted faces and both of them tripping stupidly over their own feet. Exasperated cries and weighted gasps trample over the calm of the evening, with Sawamura fighting and failing to escape Kazuya's unyielding grip, and Kazuya clutching him firmly by the hips until he's breathlessly begging for mercy, folded in half at the waist over Kazuya's arm, hanging limply with a deep-bellied guffaw tumbling through his teeth. Pure, perfect, full-hearted euphoria.

Kazuya's known euphoria before. It pours over him in rivulets when he's playing on the field, and when victory soars into his loving grasp for the nth time. It trembles like a warbled song within the cage of his ribs when Sawamura's face fills his vision; when Sawamura's voice fills the silence; when Sawamura's touch fills the entirety of his being.

And yet it's funny, how new euphoria can still be for him, gliding temperately over all his senses. It smells like the delicately lingering fragrance of earthy spiced teas in Sawamura's kitchen, which they carelessly stumble through later on the way to his room, fingers intertwined and limbs loose with breathless laughter. It feels like the coarse fabric of Sawamura's jeans underneath his fingertips as he fumbles to unfasten them, and the soft indulgence of Sawamura's half-wet lips in languid, open-mouthed kisses beneath his own. It looks like the helpless wanting in that gold-lit gaze, a growing flame that mirrors the one flickering within his chest, and the exquisite picture of trusting abandon in the bends and angles of Sawamura's features. It tastes like the salt of Sawamura's sweat-dampened skin, hot from Kazuya's desperate, clipped breaths, slick and pliant beneath his tongue. It sounds like his name being heatedly whispered against the base of his throat as Sawamura warmly splays long legs up and around him, naked hips tenderly embraced by bare thighs, a tangle of fervent warmth rousing in the dip of Sawamura's bed.

Show me everything, Sawamura pleads into his mouth, show me you. Kazuya readily complies, opening and unfolding his body against Sawamura's in devoted surrender, the arabesque at the peak of their pas de deux; and Sawamura freely reciprocates, fulfilling that prior promise of showing him everything in return.

Even when the stage curtains close, the dance goes on, like the sun-kissed road ahead of them.

Bravissimo.

So, he'd lost. But it's not a loss; not really. Not when he's stood on this diamond at all, not when he can tilt his head up to have the sun dotingly touch his eyelids and guide them closed, not when the full breaths he takes into his lungs leave him with a freedom like the flight of butterflies. And not when he and Sawamura are both nobly dirt-streaked from a battle hard-fought, not when Sawamura's face holds more exuberant joy than any one person should be able to carry, not when Kazuya can glance over at him in defeat and only feel pleasure at the vision of that well-earned victory. He may have lost the game, but he's only just gained everything.

And Sawamura is by his side now; their respective teammates have already half-walked away and nearly reached the outskirts of the field, but are abruptly stopped in their tracks, looking backwards at them with every shade of curious astonishment coloring their expressions. It must truly be a sight to behold – the pitcher of the victorious team honoring the catcher of the defeated one: Sawamura's firm fingers are coiled around the base of Kazuya's palm and he's thrusting their joined hands into the air, bellowing his signature loud, obnoxious 'Oooshi!'deafeningly beside Kazuya's ear. And beyond all his wildest expectations, the crowd slides into a fervent uproar. Nice plays, Miyuki; nice catching, Miyuki; nice pitching, Sawamura. Fond love rings loudly within the tumultuous voices, resonating from the stands in heated, devoted chants, the rumbling echoes tremoring at the very tips of Kazuya's fingers and toes.

Typical. Only Sawamura can inspire that, he muses, finding his own face slackening in surprise and his heart furtively soaring in his chest. Really, who needs to pay any heed to even the most widespread gossip when the cheers of those who clearly perceive how deeply baseball is carved into his flesh, how ardently it surges through his veins, can fill the space of an entire stadium like this? A gratified smirk glides acceptingly over his mouth before he even knows it, and he indulgently clenches his raised hand into a pumped fist. Even in loss, he'll greet these praises with open arms: admittedly, they'd played some damn good baseball today.

They find themselves still in high spirits as they reunite on their way out, and that's when Sawamura bluntly drops it on him: 'Hey, my family's waiting outside for us. They said they wanna take us out to lunch.'

Every fiber of Kazuya's brain halts at that.

'… Us,' he echoes curtly.

'Yeah,' Sawamura cheerfully affirms, a too-wide grin expanding sideways to show gleaming rows of pale teeth; it reminds Kazuya so eerily of himself that he thinks he can understand why his own toothy smirks are often responded to with indignant yells. 'Not gonna sugarcoat it – I think they might want to have a good look at you. Wakana's there, too. She said she's dying to actually meet you properly, so …'

'Sawamura,' Kazuya interrupts in a tremendously patient voice, 'I'm nowhere near prepared for that. And I just came out of a losing game. Are you seriously springing your parents on me without telling me first?'

'Aren't I telling you right now? And well, if we're going to talk about surprises, then somehow I remember being swarmed by ten billion reporters without warning when all I'd wanted was to buy a drink, thanks to someone,' Sawamura retaliates with furrowed brows, sarcasm dripping thickly from every nook and cranny of his tone.

Kazuya's mouth nearly opens of its own accord, but he stops and bites down mindfully on his tongue. Remarkably, that's a very good point.

'Anyway, they sprung this lunch thing on me just now, too. I knew they were coming today, but I didn't know they were planning this until they decided to send me a message while I was packing up, so I'm just as unprepared. You'll be fine,' Sawamura pushes in a declaration, stubbornly elbowing him in the side. 'Just be you, the way you are with me. Preferably while toning down your inner jerk, but shockingly enough, you're a lot more than that, so it shouldn't be hard for you, right?'

Smartass. Kazuya eyeballs him momentarily before issuing a long, loud sigh from his lips, measured and deliberate, which is admittedly a little melodramatic on his part. 'Fine. Just for you.'

Sawamura's answer is an easygoing smile, as warm and luminous as sunlight, brightened even more by a tranquil gold gaze; and Kazuya loses his way in it within the space of a few pulsing heartbeats, like it's the will of nature. God, he's so far gone with this boy, he thinks distantly. He'll never pull himself out – and somehow, that's more than alright with him.

'Back in high school, I used to ramble about you a lot to them when I called home. Complaints about how twisted you were, mostly,' Sawamura admits clumsily, a nostalgic chuckle softly rasping from his throat. 'You know, I do miss throwing to you in a real game. Playing against you is an awesome challenge too, but sometimes I can't help remembering what it used to be like. It's a shame we're not still on the same team.'

And blood pumps steadily like muffled drumbeats at Kazuya's throat all of a sudden, rhythmic palpitations tensing against the inner layers of his skin, straining outwards as if pushing to seep through his pores. A conversation for another day, he remembers thinking, back when he'd paid Sawamura that visit at practice. And here we are now, huh.

'… Well. If that's something that we both want,' he mutters with impressive calm, belying the muted heat creeping surreptitiously over the tips of his ears, 'then I'm pretty sure that things can be arranged.'

Although he has an obstinate blond hanger-on who'd kill to not be separated from him, Kazuya thinks with veiled amusement; the vision of Mei's comically unimpressed scowl and flared nostrils discreetly fades in behind his eyes. But he knows something will work out, if this indeed ends up being written into the crisp, clean pages of their future. Sawamura wraps an arm sideways around his shoulders, and leans in languorously to his ear; the little hairs at the back of Kazuya's neck slowly lift in irrepressible sensitivity, and a cool quiver ripples down the length of his spine.

'That'd be perfect,' Sawamura murmurs, leaving him an air-light peck on his earlobe, as delicate as the fleeting touch of cotton muslin and uncharacteristically demure – before pulling back with a somewhat self-satisfied grin and thumping him mercilessly on the side of his ribs with the knuckles of his free hand, calculated and purposeful, in a mischievous show of gratitude.

Kazuya's mouth twists, but he snakes his own arm closely and comfortably around Sawamura's waist, leaning back slightly to gently nudge the shell of Sawamura's ear once with the tip of his nose; he follows it with a sharp pinch to the pliant flesh at the rise of Sawamura's hip, and the unpleasantly surprised cutting inhale that he hears being immediately sucked in through clamped teeth is entirely worth it.

They step outside together to a heated flood of sunlight and noise, and cameras are instantly drawn to their presence like gravity, rapid continuous clicks resounding as sparklingly as the clinking of falling marbles. Kazuya tosses them a brief smirk, but otherwise slides his gaze away and pays them no real mind, and Sawamura does the same; it's almost funny, when he thinks about it, that a beautiful photograph of them had been captured on a day almost exactly like this, in a scene nearly precisely like this, with their arms enfolding each other just like this – and commotions stirred amongst faceless strangers aside, he and Sawamura had laid their eyes upon an image of themselves as they truly are, and everything around them had subtly begun shifting then, portions of their lives set into motion, parts of their world transforming. It's so nauseatingly perfect and so sickeningly saccharine that Kazuya inwardly scoffs, but without any real bite. This is a day to be celebrated, after all, and he scans his eyes across the crowd; he distantly spots Chris, Yuki and the Kominato brothers grinning at him, and he winks at them and quickly flashes a gleeful V-sign back.

'Hey! I found you guys, finally,' an animated voice calls out; Sawamura's friend suddenly emerges through a crack in the sea of reporters and spectators, and springs up to them merrily, her visage bright with cheery laughter. She's holding her own little Polaroid block – a white cube with a photographic lens attached – and she jiggles it with emphasis, chirping: 'Photo?'

'If it's you, Wakana,' answers Sawamura with a relieved sigh, 'then with pleasure.'

The young woman raises the white box with satisfaction and Sawamura pauses momentarily to give a little wave to his approaching family within the crowd; he then glances back at Kazuya with a sunny glimmer in that fluid, lively gaze, and Kazuya warmly creases the corners of his eyes at him in reply. The two of them reflexively turn their bodies inwards and curl even closer to one another, the arms that they've already enveloped around each other tightening more securely, cheek faintly pressed against cheek.

He's nearly twenty-three and he's here, making memories that matter, together with Sawamura and people who matter.

They smile for the camera.