Title: Stages Of Trompe-l'oeil
Author: Harmony (Silver Harmony)
Characters/Pairing: Miyuki x Sawamura
Rating: M
Word Count: Approximately 15,527.
Disclaimer: Not mine, otherwise this pairing would be canon.
Notes: For those who don't understand the title, a trompe-l'œil is basically an art technique that uses realism to give the optical illusion that the artwork/painting is three-dimensional. That's all it is (you can look it up on Wikipedia or Google for more info). This is a story about miyusawa being friends with benefits, so it has scenes involving/mentioning mutual masturbation and sex, but they're pretty mild, hence the light rating.
Feedback: Very much appreciated, as I need it to improve. Thank you!

…

He's straightening up to a seated position, coolly swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, when the near-demure touch of calloused fingertips flutters across the bare stretch of skin over his hipbone.

'Hey, do you know that you run a little colder than normal people?' questions Sawamura under his breath, an intrigued quirk pulling collectedly at the corner of his mouth, honeyed eyes round and wide and subtly glimmering with an youthful earnestness.

Kazuya lets out an unconcerned sniff; he turns his gaze away and reaches for the boxers that he'd carelessly tossed onto the floor, and straightforwardly starts sliding them on. 'What are you talking about?'

'Like, your skin. Your body. You,' the other boy murmurs in answer, and there's a tender rustling of fabric as he shifts in the sheets behind Kazuya, as he leisurely hoists himself up, as he moves to curiously run the roughened pads of his fingers over the rigid lines of Kazuya's naked ribs – curved patterns traced with the light softness of a brush of feathered wings. 'It's always like that; I just – hadn't really said anything, you know. But yeah, you're always a little cool to the touch. It's kind of unusual, that's all.'

Yet Sawamura's own touch is as warm and rousing with life as it's always been, a muted ardor stirring from the palm that's hovering steadily over Kazuya's waist, delicately hot without even being laid against him. Kazuya lowers his lashes, reaches over and briefly brushes the back of his knuckles against Sawamura's: a wordless comfort, as breathlessly discreet between them as the embracing of exquisitely private diary pages by well-worn covers; he coils lean fingers around the base of Sawamura's palm and gives a placid squeeze, gently lifting the hand away from his torso, before slowly releasing his grasp and letting go. And Kazuya can immediately feel it at the loss of that touch – the slivers of cold swiftly moving in and swirling at his own fingertips, trickling in streamlets into the length of his arms, expanding in pools within the core of his body.

'Huh. Is that so?'

He doesn't look back at Sawamura as he says this; he simply stands up and moves to slip on his trousers and his t-shirt without another word.

A clipped puff of air is blown behind him, followed by an inquisitive utterance: '… Leaving so soon again?'

It's sinless interest rumbling beneath Sawamura's words, but there's no hesitant uncertainty in the steady tenor of his voice. It's as though he already fully knows the answer, even as he's asking the question.

The flesh on Kazuya's palms convulse as he makes his way out of the dorm room; he nearly surrenders to a hidden impulse to spare one last glance at the other boy as he closes the door behind him, but he doesn't.

There's an obscure painting suspended on the wall outside Kazuya's shared dorm room, displaying a garnet-feathered bird taking flight from a crooked bough of pale peach blossoms. When it hangs a little above eye level, as it does at present, it appears to bare itself in three dimensions – a stationary scene graced by divine breath and springing to life: a trick of the eye, an optical illusion, a masterpiece of trompe-l'œil.

Sometimes, when he's passing by the artwork, he can't help but be drawn to gaze upon it for a bare fleeting moment; and then, for some reason that he's still yet to fully grasp, leave whilst wondering exactly how much of himself is real.

He knows that the answer to that should be simple. His memories are still awash with the nostalgic pastel watercolors of a daydream – of his years spent on the wide fields of Seidō, with the cool wind mildly caressing the tips of his hair and the sunlight's warm, lingering kiss upon his face and all of his teammates stirring with quivering momentum all around him, a youthful vivacity and cheer and innocence like they're laying their eyes upon the vast rolling sky for the very first time. He can flutter his eyes closed and take deep, full breaths into his lungs and let himself go; he can let himself feel every groaning, expanding movement of bone and sinew and muscle in his legs and arms as if they're his unfolding wings, and let himself unfurl and soar over the diamond – becoming a little boy again, that young boy who'd harbored so much thrill every time he'd slid on the sturdily creaking leather of a catcher's mitt. Becoming that young man who, to this day, still does. There are no deeply-buried motivations in his baseball other than the pleasure of the game and intelligent tricky plays and the burning drive for victory. His sport pumps as hotly through the jumbled webs of his veins as his blood does: his baseball is Miyuki Kazuya, and Miyuki Kazuya is baseball. It's as pure and as real a part of him as it gets.

But then there's the thing with Sawamura, who had animatedly tumbled into their lives with as much spirited vigor as he throws himself into his gameplay and anything else he does, who had suddenly filled Kazuya's contented world with the perverse thrill of unconventional breaking pitches and sincere, wholehearted words pronounced in a thunderously loud voice, who had unknowingly slid all the way into Kazuya's very being with a glimmering yellow-lit gaze that has as much sunshine in it as a fervid summer can hold, that has as much trust and belief and faith for Kazuya brimming in it as that tender, overflowing heart can possibly carry. Years of history lie between them: an exhilarating partnership on the diamond throughout high school, and now university – even though the fact that they've ended up attending the same one is but a coincidence – and Sawamura hasn't changed from the day he'd met him; always so pure and honest and true, as if every layer of his naked skin is translucent, sliding, shifting, revealing all the vulnerable pulsating organs and veins and flesh underneath for everyone to see. There's never any doubt as to how much of Sawamura Eijun is real: all of him.

And perhaps, Kazuya knows, that's part of the reason why he never stays the night.

He always leaves Sawamura's room; yet, true to character, Sawamura seems to never bear even a single sliver of discouragement. Contrarily, he actually goes further as to ask: 'Hey, do you ever want me to come by your dorm instead, sometime? Wherever it is,' with a hot breath and a press of semi-pursed lips against the rise of Kazuya's shoulder, and a warm brush of fingertips flitting sensitively at the bare skin of his lower belly.

It's the second time he's asked. Kazuya hears the question behind the question, the noiselessly mouthed queries laying behind that smile and the live, beating heart laying behind that gaze – and he doesn't answer them.

'I'm in a shared room. Can't get up to any nonsense in front of a roommate, can we,' he's responded twice, one corner of his half-smile quirking lopsidedly. 'I wasn't as privileged as you to get a room to myself, you know.'

Sawamura's grinned at him in reply both times, soft creases at the corners of his eyes and lips, full of acceptance in his level countenance, because that's simply who he is. Even though there must be a part of him that instinctively feels that there's more to it, given that he's asked a second time after receiving the answer the first time.

At any rate, Kazuya's response hadn't been a lie. It's a truth, so to speak, that sits in front of the crumbling wall that he's slowly built up for himself throughout all of his twenty years, tall enough that it obscures his vision of all the empty, unoccupied seats surrounding him – vacant openings of not-really-friendships and half-presences that have generally been that way since his boyhood: he'd grown to maturity in a home with hallways so endless and hollow that his footfalls had nearly echoed within them, with lights flickering so dimly during the too-quiet evenings that it blackens the faint shadows splashed upon the walls and corners. It's an eerie silence that at least, to his temperate relief, the delight and indulgence of his baseball discreetly smothers. And there's no sense in possibly tempting something that he's always tried to look away from to begin with.

So he'll always get dressed and leave. He always averts his gaze from Sawamura and departs without any syrupy sentiments, without any goodbyes and without any promises of returning. He always passes by that unusual deep red bird and finds himself vaguely wondering, in a distant thought, if he's giving only an illusion of himself. He always returns to his shared dorm room to find Sanada curled up in bed reading, looking up to give him a disquietingly cheery grin, uttering: 'I hope you didn't break him this time,' in a light-hearted tone, far too chirpy for Kazuya's taste, as if the fact that he's sleeping with Sawamura should be far simpler and more straightforward than it actually is. The statement carries mild, friendly concern and no real sting when Sanada's the one saying it; but the words all on their own still bite like a warning nonetheless, fang-tips as sharp as thorns skimming unhurriedly over Kazuya's very innards, delicate and provocative.

'You know that painting outside our room,' he says out of the blue one night, jerking his thumb backwards over his shoulder in the direction of the hallway. 'Have you ever wondered about how random it is? There are no other paintings in any of the hallways.'

'Somehow I'm not surprised that you have that reaction,' Sanada chuckles in reply, thumbing over to the next page of his homework and shifting back on his bed to a more comfortable position. 'For some odd reason, it kind of reminds me of you – there's just something about it. The bird's the same shade of red as your favorite shirt and everything. Except in some way, it looks a lot more unguarded than you do, doesn't it?'

Kazuya mindfully presses his lips together into a thin line, and answers nothing.

He finds it intriguing, how differently Sanada's and Sawamura's pitches stir him.

Back in high school, he hadn't ever entertained the thought of ending up attending the same university as Yakushi's Sanada and consequently becoming his catcher within the same team. But it turns out to be quite gratifying, because Sanada has an orthodox quality to him that any partnering catcher will find pleasing: strong, uninhibited throws; an on-point form shaped by firm angles in a solid body and sturdy limbs; and meticulously precise control built up from years and years of devoted training and organic instinct. He'd been the ace pitcher during his high school years with good reason, and he's still the ace pitcher now with good reason.

And Kazuya remembers the way Sawamura had unknowingly craved Sanada's style of pitching back in his first year at Seidō, yet developed and grown so much on his own since then; he's the exact opposite of orthodox, with his erratic throws, alluringly atypical form, and boisterous mood-making within the team. He's always full of his own unique brand of presence, thoroughly made of genuine spirit and soul and the heart that he wears on his sleeve, reflected in a glittering smile and sparklingly cheerful laughter and round, impassioned eyes. That's his real identity, truly the baseball of Sawamura Eijun, and Sawamura Eijun himself. He's different from Sanada, yet equally captivating in his own right: he's utterly arresting in the flexibility of his joints, the fire in his gaze, and the wholehearted honesty in his throws.

Even after all these years, Sawamura's pitches – and Sawamura – still surprise him, still thrill him, still have the ability to leave him breathless.

So Kazuya indulges him, sometimes, when they're practicing together and Sawamura pleads for him to stay and catch a little longer. He'll jokingly let out a little noise of mock-exasperation and proceed to let Sawamura throw until the air turns chilly and the sun begins to descend in purple-red hues, until Sawamura's visage loosens with easygoing joy and his limbs are lax with cheery satisfaction. And that's how they end their practice session that late afternoon, long after all the other players have already departed; they've just finished changing out of their uniforms and are the only ones left in the silent locker room when Sawamura asks with his usual starry-eyed and boyish straightforwardness, 'Yosh! How did I do today? Were my throws good?'

Four years Kazuya's known him, three of them spent in the steady partnership of their battery, and Sawamura's wild innocence hasn't changed: his motivations for playing are as faultlessly uncomplicated and pure as always.

'You did just fine,' says Kazuya coolly.

Sawamura doesn't seem placated by that answer at all, because the edges of his mouth droop in a remarkably unimpressed frown and he lets out a discontented puff of air through his nose. 'That's all?'

Of course not, Kazuya thinks, but he knows that Sawamura doesn't always realize how extraordinary he actually is. He's as radiantly incandescent as the sun when he's standing on the mound, and yet he modestly looks upon Kazuya with as much unadulterated trust as one can possibly invest in a partner; he's the type to carry so much belief in the quality of others without even looking upon his own vivid brilliance – a golden-hearted selflessness and humility that contradicts his outwardly noisy, energetic manner. The naïve, raucous declarations of his intentions to surpass others as the ace has become somewhat subdued with the rising focus on his own personal growth throughout the years; he's been that way since, without swerving in his staunch determination, and Kazuya may just find the thought of that flickering flame a little comforting.

'Your form was solid today,' Kazuya utters in an even tone. Your presence was as eye-catching as usual. 'Your control's still steady, so right now you don't have anything to worry about.' You actually had my heart racing with your aura. 'Anyway, it's good that you're maintaining an optimistic attitude to your pitching; that's important.' You looked bright, happy – pretty breathtaking. '… I think you did well. Nice work.' … You moved me.

Sawamura stares at him wordlessly for a brief moment, fluid gold eyes wide and glistening, pale pink trickling over the tips of his ears; for a fleeting second, Kazuya uneasily has to wonder whether or not he'd said the correct thoughts aloud. Of course he had, he muses. Yet something must've slipped through the cracks, leaking through in his expression, dripping privily over the entirety of him like he's never intended, and Sawamura must've seen it; because there's a profound shift in the younger boy's countenance, the tension of his mouth slackening in some level of comprehension. Sawamura steps towards him, uncharacteristically mild and easygoing, brushing his fingertips against the inside of Kazuya's wrist, and he presses his lips softly to the angled line of Kazuya's jaw.

'Yeah … you too,' he murmurs under his breath; no smile adorns his face, but a whisper of one ripples in his voice like the crystalline bubbling of a stream nonetheless.

And the knowledge that he can stop there trembles deep in Kazuya's gut like a brittle plea for mercy. They can end this conversation with a casual mellow grin and a graciously sincere thanks and you're welcome and it'll be just fine. But Sawamura is right here within reach, so close, close enough that Kazuya can easily grasp him by the shoulders and draw him in and push him right into himself, right through the gaps of his bones and into the enveloping embrace of his ribcage, if he wants to; Kazuya doesn't know when he's started to become so helplessly greedy but this, right now, doesn't really feel like enough – perhaps nothing's ever truly enough, not when he's still distantly wondering what it's possibly like to have that heart beating against his, together, in time. And it's probable that he lives up to all those remarks that people have made over the years about him being emotionally impaired, because there may be things that he's never really expressed the way normal people do. He opts to answer in the only way he knows how to without having to slice himself open and take himself apart, these days: moving in, slowly, with barely-parted lips and a caress of his tongue to the side of Sawamura's throat, and a lean hand sliding down to palm the front of Sawamura's trousers.

'Miyuki—' Sawamura starts, and then stops, and maybe something inside of Kazuya chips and fractures just a little.

He strokes through coarse fabric, patient and collected, and even though loud brashness embellishes Sawamura's actions and words day-to-day, there's always a hint of something light and beautiful coloring the way that he responds in seduction. He's near-reverently leaning into the calm, measured movement of Kazuya's hand, but pulling away just barely from Kazuya's mouth to soften the strain on the angled wrist, and Kazuya quickly misses the salt of his skin; lithe, pliable fingers modestly curl themselves into the material of Kazuya's shirt and Sawamura idly runs the very tip of his nose over the hollow of Kazuya's cheek, alongside the edge of his lips – as weightless as a petal, barely even a touch – heating the supple flesh with chaste pants, faint and serene and catching shallowly in the younger boy's throat. Sawamura's other hand skims sedately down Kazuya's hip, to Kazuya's fly, and then he's fumbling to undo the brass button and zipper with an unexpected demureness that makes Kazuya's chest constrict, as if Sawamura's unwrapping him with care, as if Sawamura thinks he's worth appreciating, worth savoring, worth it.

Sawamura barely has to slip slim fingertips down the front of Kazuya's uncovered briefs before they're both hard and alive and halfway to human, simply from unabashed wanting, and Sawamura withdraws from his cheek and sucks in a small, quiet breath through his teeth.

'You're like one of those birds,' he murmurs ridiculously, and yet Kazuya still can't help but move in to kiss him with a stifled impatience that only leaves him helplessly wanting more. There's something graciously sweet in Sawamura's mouth, illusory aftertastes of heartfelt utterances and sunlit smiles, those lips soft and wet beneath Kazuya's own; Sawamura's uneven breath glides hotly past Kazuya's teeth, warms his tongue, coaxes him into being. He pins Sawamura to the ashen wall with his hips and his fingers move from their placid rubbing caresses to unfasten the other boy's trousers, dulled nails stealing beneath the hem of Sawamura's shirt and darting over rough skin, and suddenly a muffled hiss of surprise slithers against Kazuya's mouth.

'Thought I told you, Miyuki Kazuya,' Sawamura rasps between languid kisses, low and guttural. 'You run cold.'

In another universe, Kazuya may have given him a perversely lackadaisical apology, with a raised eyebrow and the outward stretch of one of his signature toothy smirks. But he's already a little too far gone – they both seemingly are, because the fabric swathed around their hips quickly serves as too much restraint and they're surreptitiously abandoning each other's waistbands to half-uninhibitedly pull down at their own trousers and underwear, and letting them subtly drop the rest of the way, creased cotton bunching halfway down their thighs. Kazuya ignores Sawamura's last sentiment in favor of the preceding one; he appreciatively traces a single knuckle down the firm central line of Sawamura's lower stomach, and then very slowly back up, relishing the way the muscles tense beneath his fingers, and he whispers: 'Which birds,' against the other boy's mouth.

Sawamura is simultaneously tender and fervent all at once, imparting one last lingering, almost-heavyhearted kiss before reluctantly pulling back; he reaches around to splay a warm hand over the shallow slant at the base of Kazuya's spine, drawing their lower bodies together, and rolls his hips against Kazuya's, once, twice. 'Those homing doves, or whatever,' he answers mildly, cheeks hollowed and lips pursed into a clueless pout. Thrice, and more; the minute friction is enough to spark adrenaline, and Kazuya leisurely, unhurriedly, indulgently grinds counter to him in response, letting the wall behind Sawamura support them. And Sawamura evidently doesn't linger too long on that precise contemplation of his, because then he shifts and slips his other hand between them, tracing slender fingertips up the underside of Kazuya's shaft with such a peculiar measure of humble devotion, even when his own remains a temperate dark throb between his legs – still urgently untouched. ''Cause for some reason, you keep coming back, right?'

The corners of Kazuya's lips nearly quirk, because Sawamura's basically never this poetic unless he's just read another one of those period literary pieces, and there's an unexpected eloquence to what he's just said that makes Kazuya's chest prickle a little more – a smarting sensation that's somewhere between rapture and aching. Those long pitcher's fingers feel warm flitting against him and even warmer as they shift up and curl securely around him, as the coarse pad of a thumb sweeps delicately over the slit, feather-light; and the tips of Kazuya's fingers and toes quake and he slides his face into the junction where Sawamura's neck and shoulder meets, near-quivering, tremulously breathing Sawamura's name into his skin.

Even though he wishes that they're currently someplace more comfortable instead of here – not to mention doing this dry; they don't exactly bring much more than a change of clothing to practices – it's still really nice and oddly comforting and inelegant but lovely, the way it always is with Sawamura. It's beautifully sensitive, like an encircling embrace of warm wings; which is somewhat strange, because they're only friends with benefits, and even that term is questionable, given that Kazuya isn't sure if they're actually properly friends, or if he has any proper friends at all. Yet as usual, Sawamura's the one opening him up, unraveling him, peeling the layers of his armor away strip by strip, and it's just a little perilous whenever Kazuya starts to come undone like this because he'll only ever lay himself out if it's in a way that doesn't actually bare anything. But it's so good, Sawamura's hot breath in his hair and that sudden fluttering of teeth over the shell of his ear and Sawamura's hands on him, around him – so perfect, and the hairs on his nape raise irrepressibly; he can feel the thickened callouses dusted across that palm and those fingers, eloquent battle scars painting a picture of devotedly hard work. Kazuya always wants to pilot himself with control, and he also never wants to.

'Stupid. What if I go off and end up being lost to you,' he susurrates unevenly through half-wet lips, but no sliver of bite sharpens his words. And he doesn't get more than that out, because he finds himself being guided backwards just a little to create more room; and then Sawamura starts stroking slowly down the length of him, composedly fucks the head through a calm, steady fist, pumps collectedly with a stable rhythm and a slight twist that's perhaps still a little clumsy but as full of heart and zeal as Sawamura always is: such a youthful purity illustrated in a half-lidded gaze and colored cheekbones and carelessly wrinkled clothes. So absurdly, guiltlessly endearing, and Kazuya is already in so deep, and heat's pooling low in his belly and he's only sinking deeper. Kazuya reaches out to Sawamura and wraps fingers around him in return, closes around that welcome hardness with his own fist, and he supposes he mustn't be as cold as before because no complaint spills from Sawamura's lips – only vulnerable, unashamed pants.

If an enormous picture frame encloses them at this moment, they'll make an exquisitely fine artwork: a raw, tastefully dirty portrait of such a base form of humanity, organically mortal in a way that's foreign to Kazuya except for when he's on the field – and when he's with Sawamura, like he is now. He jerks Sawamura evenly in firm, slow drags, and a flush drips all the way down the taut angle of Sawamura's throat; the younger boy lowers his head and his eyes smoothly slide to a close, like he's losing his way in this, and something is so immaculately charming about it that Kazuya finds himself aching to drink it all in, to inhale it all until it forms into a part of him, merges with him, becomes his own. He rocks shallowly into the warm circle of Sawamura's fingers, tight and enthralling in their grasp around him, such that pre-come beads at the tip, and it hazily crosses Kazuya's mind that contrary to his last words, he's not sure he can really picture giving this up. It'll mean giving up Sawamura's cheer, his presence, his smile, his earnestness, his human quality: everything that Kazuya may not always have within himself, that Sawamura fills the open spaces of with such a complete fit, like the coming together of adjoining puzzle pieces – as if they're two halves that can form one whole.

'Then you'd stay free, wouldn't you?' mumbles Sawamura, voice breathy and serrated, scraping over the back of his mouth. 'Or you might find your way back … you'd still be free, though. Ah – God, Miyuki.'

That, Kazuya muses, sounds dangerously like a choice that he's more than welcome to decide between. Sawamura's lids flutter open halfway and he's gazing at Kazuya through dark lashes, with naked abandon coloring burnished gold eyes, with keen sighs issuing from parted lips. Heavens, he thinks too much. Sawamura's skin is slick on his, and he relishes in that contact and lays aside those thoughts; there's something about a human touch that, in his characteristic detachment, stirs deeper than the surface – in his blood and veins and organs – but there's something about Sawamura's touch, for reasons that he's yet to fully grasp, that simply transcends all of it. So here they are now.

The air swirls rather coolly even in the relatively close expanse, and anyone can possibly walk in on them at any moment, but they make do with it, this furtive little secret that they're sharing in the locker room. They lean into each other, and Kazuya wants to draw out the sensation of Sawamura's hand on him by concentrating his focus on anything else – on Sawamura's earthy scent, the amber flare of his eyes, the unsteady tempo of his breaths, anything; but it proves utterly futile, because it's all still Sawamura, who always fills up his whole field of vision merely by his existence. There's only this, the coiling tension between his legs, the furling pressure in Sawamura's body. And Kazuya finds himself already desperately lost, already gone. Heat pours over him in rivulets and the entirety of his world narrows to Sawamura's touch on him and his touch on Sawamura when he comes, warm and wet in Sawamura's hand, with a long, brazen exhale through his teeth, with burning undulations rippling deep within his very core. Unseen wings rouse; plumes rustle through air.

And Sawamura follows not long after that with a fiercer rasp of his name, spilling shamelessly over Kazuya with a few hot, measured pulls of Kazuya's hand, and he's striking, picturesque. He's enthrallingly honest, as he always is on and off the diamond, right down to his very bones: the way every lasting wave of euphoria is unabashedly chased in the low rolling of his hips, the way his jaw sets in a hard line, the way his trembling fingers move to tightly grasp the back of Kazuya's thigh as though he'll otherwise be swept away. And then he's purely messy, wholly flushed and vaguely quivering, like he's just ridden the intensity of throwing an outstanding pitch; loose-limbed, unwound and sated, like he's just come out of a victorious game.

They breathe in time with each other for a few passing seconds, unhurried, calmly filling the reverberating silence within the empty room. And in a single instant after that, it's like rationality resets into its rigid position in the length of Kazuya's spine, and he's snapping back into place – practical, methodical, logical, already withdrawing himself from Sawamura, such that tendrils of cold return swiftly to his skin when it leaves Sawamura's; he promptly moves to retrieve a crumpled towel from his sports bag in order to wipe himself up, and he starts pulling his trousers back into place.

Sawamura is still propped against the wall, wrinkled fabric pooled midway down his thighs, lungs pulling in and pushing out deep, full breaths, and he gazes at Kazuya with some degree of knowing. 'You're leaving pretty quickly, huh.'

'What are you talking about,' Kazuya answers in a level voice, buttoning himself up and raising an eyebrow. 'We're not even in your room right now.'

Yet he pauses for a moment of hesitancy, and suddenly, he can't help but envision walking over to placidly entangle his fingers within Sawamura's, to scarcely touch the tip of his nose to Sawamura's, to serenely press his lips to Sawamura's mouth. A soft, slow, tranquil kiss goodnight with no uncertainties behind it, that he doesn't have to make reasons for, to which he can pour in whatever he's locked up inside throughout all of his life – ghostly wisps that are currently straining against the inner walls of his ribcage, that are leaking through the cracks forming in the cool, crystal-hard stone of his skin.

But he chews down on his tongue, gathers his belongings and departs the way he always does: without sweet sentiments, without any goodbyes, and without looking back.

His mind carries that faint kiss in but a transient daydream all the way back to his dorm.

He finds himself unable to fall asleep two nights later, and amidst the dim rumble of Sanada's snores across the room, a faded picture slides discreetly behind his eyes: of himself crouching readily in the catcher's box, of a molten gold gaze and a summer smile emanating from sixty feet and six inches away, and of burning, solid pitches firmly striking his glove. Really, he must be a baseball idiot to the very core, because with him, baseball is all it ever takes. His body quickly abandons all desire for sleep and he quietly rises out of bed; before he knows it, his legs are already moving of their own accord, leading him out of his dorm with his mitt in hand.

Sawamura is still awake when Kazuya comes knocking; the younger boy opens the door and leisurely looks him over, all circular mouth and furrowed eyebrows and an inquisitive wrinkle to his nose. He steals a curious glance at the mitt and bluntly says, 'And how do you plan on working that in?'

'Mind out of the gutter, Sawamura. Believe it or not, that's not why I'm here tonight,' Kazuya remarks flatly, but he can't help the twitch at the corners of his lips, threatening to curve upwards. 'Are you tired? Feel like a casual session of catch?'

Sawamura's already-large, glossy eyes visibly widen at that, and Kazuya knows that he doesn't even need to ask twice.

You'd stay free. Kazuya's known freedom: he's felt it in the exhilarating bliss of standing on the field, the thrilling adrenaline of the gameplay, the wind across his skin, the thunderous cheers from the stands. And this is no less of freedom – stumbling onto the campus' baseball field at a quarter to eleven with slackened limbs and too-loud conversations laced with cheer, merriment quivering beneath their collars and radiating from the tips of their fingers; stripping back the statistical numbers and the backbreaking training and the pressures of securing a place within the finals of a tournament for just one night, simply to enjoy the creak of the ball at their fingertips, the quick gushes of air, the sturdy, reverberating smacks within their gloves: purely playing as small children play.

'No need to go overboard,' Kazuya deadpans, with a nonchalant toss of the ball back to Sawamura. 'You're almost pitching seriously. Don't strain your shoulder. We're just throwing to catch.'

'Ah? It must be in my bones then!' Sawamura crinkles his eyes and grins widely, a sideways stretch of thinning lips and the unveiling of bright, white teeth. He obnoxiously flexes his pitching arm, noisily declaring: 'Maybe I'm a natural!'

Kazuya stares at him blandly, completely unmoved. And then, with impressive swiftness, he walks over and digs straight, stiff fingers unrestrainedly into Sawamura's ribs.

The piercing squawk that hurtles out from Sawamura's throat is completely worth it. He springs away animatedly, wearing an entirely offended expression ornamented with the most poisonous glare, deep lines carving into his brow and lips tightly pressed together. But Kazuya raises his hand and waves his fingers, giving Sawamura a blank, pointed look, and the tension on the other boy's face quickly sags in dreading realization; and then, within the next passing second, the bones and muscles in Sawamura's legs heave – and he's running for his life, nearly smoke-footed in his haste, bolting off as if he's gunning for home. The edges of Kazuya's mouth warmly crease; he takes a deep breath, and flies after him.

He thinks that if a giant picture frame encloses them now, they'll still make an enchanting portrait of basic humanity that's no less captivating than the one from two days ago. Veiling shadows shroud them, but the rolling field is vast before them and the open sky is boundless above them, and the cool air is clear and exhilarating within their lungs. Such surprisingly simple, humble joy, even in the dead of night: they're little boys again, playing wild and carefree. And for now, this is just fine.

'Go away, Miyuki Kazuya.'

'Not happening,' retorts Kazuya brusquely, gaining on him.

His legs are a little longer than Sawamura's and it doesn't take long for him to catch up; Sawamura quickly comes within easy reach, and Kazuya extends his arms and nimbly grasps the other boy's hips with claw-tight hands. Sawamura gives a strangled yelp, and then they're both plummeting forward from the momentum and tumbling onto the earth, limbs tangled within each other's, bodies jumbled together in a dirt-streaked, flustered, panting mess. Victory.

'… Caught you,' Kazuya breathes into the folds of Sawamura's sweater. His glasses are askew and he's a little sore, but hot gratification trickles through his veins.

Sawamura glowers at him; however, mild acceptance wrinkles itself into the pout of his lips. 'Yeah, you did.'

Susurrating deep red feathers flicker momentarily across the forefront of Kazuya's imagination, and he wonders distantly when it had been, exactly, that the calculated brushstrokes had started appearing more like real gossamer-light threads in his mind's eye – almost tangible. He and Sawamura straighten themselves out, unraveling themselves from one another and putting their mitts down, and they lie wordlessly next to each other for a transitory moment, savoring the peaceful silence. But then Sawamura shifts to lie on his side, elbow on the ground, propping his head up on one hand, unashamedly watching Kazuya with round-eyed frankness; the position looks comfortable, and Kazuya finds himself unconsciously moving to mirror the gesture, facing him, laying his free hand on the earth between them.

'This is fun,' Sawamura pronounces, reaching out and idly tapping on Kazuya's knuckles twice with his fingers. 'Can we do more of these catching sessions?'

Kazuya turns his hand upwards beneath Sawamura's, so that they're palm to palm, and patiently responds: 'We basically did about ten minutes of catching before we got sidetracked.'

'That's okay,' drones Sawamura straightforwardly, flat mouth slanting, like it's obvious. 'You're here catching my throws. I'll always take ten minutes of that over nothing.'

Sawamura's fingers nudge through the gaps between Kazuya's, resting within them without quite interweaving with them, and the secure warmth of that hand makes Kazuya even more aware of the biting cold in his own skin, somehow.

'But after the end of next week. I haven't handed in this major paper thing that was due yesterday, yuck,' Sawamura suddenly adds, petulance stirring into the angles of his face. 'I'm a little screwed … I'm already late and they said I'm pretty much going to fail the subject if I don't hand it in in a week. There's like, a couple of months' worth of work that you need to put into it, but uh – I haven't started.'

'My God, that's so typical,' Kazuya monotones dryly, crumpling an eyebrow. 'Need any help?'

'Nah, I'll manage. I'm sure you have your hands full with your own schedule anyway. But after this, more casual catch, yeah? And maybe we could also do more of those late-night chats. As much as I really like – well, you know, everything else … we haven't done that in a while.'

Indeed they haven't. Nearly all of Kazuya's dorm visits end with Sawamura digging fingernails into his bare back and panting his name into his collarbone, but before all that, months ago, they'd buy soda from one of the hallway vending machines and bundle themselves into Sawamura's room and serenely talk about a variety of things into the late hours of the night, relaxed and easygoing. The frequency of doing the latter has somewhat dwindled nowadays, despite it being evident that the two of them take plenty of enjoyment in doing both things. But Kazuya can taste a small sliver of the tranquil flavor of those late-night chats in their casual catch session tonight, and he surprisingly finds soft peace sinking into the marrow of his bones. They're both here, right now, where Kazuya has chosen to be; where Sawamura, evidently, has also made the choice to be.

Something inside him pauses, and out of the blue, a pale memory of that choice offered back in the locker room flitters past him. Perhaps a hidden, deep-rooted part of him has always known that it's not just his choice to stay or leave – Sawamura has the same choices laid out before him. Choices he can easily make, and choices he can easily refuse; Kazuya's not the only one with the freedom to walk away. And suddenly, in a bizarre fantasy, it's as if Sawamura fades before his eyes, and Kazuya's out here on his own, enveloped by shadows and wind and silence and nothing more, and huh … curious. The world seems a little stranger, the night sky a little darker, without the presence of that golden gaze and sunlit smile: it has an ambiance that rings with the same unsettling timbre as the deafening empty quietude of his earlier youth.

Sawamura is mindlessly tracing his thumb down Kazuya's, but a peculiarly muddled undercurrent washes across the inside of Kazuya's chest; his mouth curls, and he shakes off the sensation and slowly gets up onto his feet in one smooth movement.

'It's really late. We should probably start a little earlier next time,' he utters coolly, bending over momentarily to pick up his mitt. And even without meeting Sawamura's eyes, the knowing, yellow-glazed scrutiny runs hot at his nape.

'… Yeah, okay. You sure like leaving quickly.'

'Come on,' Kazuya continues, lowering his gaze; but he softens his tone. 'Otherwise you'll catch a cold.'

He doesn't wait, and he doesn't look back. He calmly turns on his heel and starts walking at a moderate, unhurried pace, and a brief moment of barely-there hesitation foams within his gut when all he hears is silence. But then there's a placid rustling of movement and a set of following footfalls behind him, almost unreservedly faithful and loyal in their synchronized timing with Kazuya's own steps; whatever temperate relief he feels at that is flooded over by the frosty air nipping at his skin, the nighttime murk clouding his vision, all soaking into his pores.

His hands remain stationary inside his pockets all the way back to Sawamura's dorm, yet his feet keep moving when they get there; the door of Sawamura's room creaks open behind him, and then there's a softly-mumbled, 'Good night, Miyuki-senpai.'

And that's when he stops. No goodbyes, no looking back, no saccharine gestures: that's been his chainmail, his safety blanket, his dark red bird. But something gives way; a single block of ice in that wall steadily chips apart with a grinding crackle – and for once, he swallows over that reservation in his throat and murmurs, 'Yeah. Good night, Sawamura.'

The farewell words are warm spun sugar in his mouth, subtle and light. There's a long pause before the door clicks shut behind him, but Kazuya makes sure not to leave until he hears it.

On the very first evening that Sawamura had arrived on campus, nine months back, Kazuya had cheekily welcomed him to university life by turning up at his dorm with two bottles of soda. They'd been separated for a year, and Sawamura had looked humorously mock-distasted to see Kazuya at his door; yet that one late-night chat had soon become two, and then three, until they were indulging in them nearly every time that they both didn't have early classes or practice the next day. And even though they'd never done this back at Seidō, they'd never run out of things to talk about. They'd ramble on about the team that Kazuya had left behind at Seidō and Sawamura's final year of high school; the team that Sawamura was entering here and Kazuya's first year of university, including his battery with Sanada; victories, losses, gameplays, everyone's general well-being, story after story for hours upon hours. A brief chat about Miyuki's home life and a detailed description of Sawamura's; the songs they liked; the manga series they're following; the drama shows they're watching; even laid-back anecdotes about their respective university classmates and professors. Sometimes they'd play light, easy video games on Sawamura's small television set while they chattered, or they'd put on a movie for simple wordless companionship. Whatever they did, they'd always part at the end of the night in unexpectedly cheery spirits.

Kazuya's mild pats on the back and casual touches had always been the norm, but suddenly, Sawamura had begun returning them during conversation – each time nonchalantly, spontaneously, as though it's always been that way. And it hadn't been strange for Kazuya to sling an arm over Sawamura's shoulders as they sat together, with Sawamura comfortably leaning into him for hours as they conversed. It still hadn't felt strange when their sentences had become sprinkled with cozily interlaced fingers and half-shy, tentative, experimental kisses in between, warm and reassuring. Then they'd crossed lines even further than that, without really feeling any need to justify it afterwards, and they've never stopped since: a content pairing of whatever-they-are with benefits.

The week that Sawamura's off working on his paper is almost a break in the company that Kazuya's oddly become used to; he briefly sees Sawamura only at practice during that time. He's indifferently grown somewhat accustomed to detachment throughout all these years, in muted isolation that feels too quiet, in empty hallways that feel too wide. Yet the noisy corridors brimming with students seem even more silent and the close, narrow walls look even further apart than that – he hears the ghosts of conversations that aren't taking place, feels the illusions of skin that isn't pressed against his. But Sawamura's working hard, Kazuya thinks; beyond any of this, everything's fine.

He visits Sawamura almost immediately after the paper's due, and the younger boy's there in his room, looking sinlessly rumpled and worn out, but still as sunny-eyed and toothy-smiled as he always is. He only gives Kazuya a lopsided smirk and too-gleefully teases, 'Missed me, did you?'

Kazuya doesn't answer that question. He pictures laying himself down onto the bed with Sawamura lazily stretched out beside him, close enough that the lines of their arms are lightly pressed together, leisurely talking together the way they frequently used to a few months ago but rarely do nowadays; he visualizes being near enough to count each of Sawamura's eyelashes, to breathe warmth into the tips of his hair, and staying that way into the late hours of the night – his own heart carved open and laid equally as bare, perhaps, as whenever his naked skin is sliding slickly against Sawamura's: a shamelessly delicate daydream.

Instead, Sawamura's bent right over the study desk twenty minutes later, in front of Kazuya, with Kazuya's fingers curled tightly into Sawamura's sweat-dampened hips and both of their trousers carelessly bunched around their knees; and Kazuya thinks, it's okay, right, because even when the time spent apart had only been so brief, their reunion sex is always incredible and Sawamura evidently relishes this just as much as he does. This is just the way he prefers it, too: taking Sawamura from behind means that the other boy doesn't see his face, which is best considering the way things are right now – Kazuya's uncertain if the fibers holding his brittle stone skin together may come apart otherwise.

And there's always a trace of pure-hearted guiltlessness about Sawamura, even like this. He can be shamefully bent over as he is now, spread-eagled, engaging in something so delightfully filthy; and yet, he bears an untainted youthful innocence in his vulnerable abandon, his honest wanting, his breathy pleas – an earnest purity that Kazuya's seen in no one else, least of all himself. Kazuya can almost take hold of Sawamura's ribs and pry them apart and run soft lips and a hot breath over that beating heart and Sawamura will openly let him. He's as marvelously tight around him as Kazuya's constricting chest; and wantonly wet, as wet as the moist heat that sometimes threatens to rise behind Kazuya's eyes, but never does.

It's no less beautiful than the contented laughter and warm conversations that fill the corners of the walls in a hazy memory, even though only one side of that balance scale has somehow dramatically sunk in recent months.

'… You alright?' asks Kazuya later, as he's sedately zipping himself up.

Sawamura's still hunched over the table, slender palms laid flat upon its wooden surface, but he looks up at Kazuya with mild reassurance, despite his unsmiling countenance. 'Yeah, that was great.'

Amber eyes calmly slide away and Sawamura stays silent there, light pants flowing out from between scantly-parted lips. Leaving quickly again? he'll usually say; he's uttered similar words so often that Kazuya, out of some habitual instinct, actually pauses right where he's standing and finds himself waiting for them. Yet this time, for some reason, they don't come. Cool stray air wafts over his skin, lifts the fine hairs resting across his body; the room feels a little colder and more vacant now than he's used to, somehow.

Something slowly stirs inside his stomach like the chilly currents of a whirlpool; he composedly pushes it down, just as he pushes down everything else, and casually steps away and makes to leave. He opens the door, and suddenly, an unusual heat kindles like fire at his nerve endings – and he's swiftly awash with that familiar innate urge, that irresistible compulsion to glimpse Sawamura one more time. Temperate heartbeats pulse at his throat and he turns, letting go of that breath that's sitting too tensely within his chest, letting go of every firm muscle that's pulled itself too taut, letting go of all his present vague, muddy thoughts. And he looks back.

'I'm off, Sawamura,' he utters, eyeing the other boy collectedly. 'Bye. Don't sleep too late, yeah.'

Sawamura looks up with an expression of moderate surprise and meets his stare, wide-eyed. An intriguing look suddenly expands over his face – as if a multitude of emotions are skimming quickly across its lines and angles; and then, after a momentary pause, he releases a partly-curious, disbelieving, voiceless sigh of pure air, and mumbles: 'Yeah, you too.'

Kazuya offers him a single faint nod, and allows himself to drink in just a touch more of that liquid gold. He only breaks their gaze as he's striding out and closing the door behind him.

He spots Sanada and Sawamura making small talk just before practice starts, looking as comfortably easy about it as if they're good friends, and it only strikes Kazuya in that moment how unusual it looks when they're standing together. Even though they're different, there's still an uncanny likeness in their merry sociability, with wide, shimmering grins that match, and yet can fade impressively into burning focus once they each step onto the mound. Kazuya's currently the partnering catcher to them both, and has always clearly perceived and utilized their different and unique skills on the diamond; but now, he's seeing their personal similarities – all the more so when their easygoing smiles are side-by-side. It's almost a spectacle, and his lips purse, witnessing it.

He's hard at work in the bullpen later that afternoon when completely out of the blue, Sanada says a little too offhandedly: 'That guy's got pretty admirable strength of character, huh. He just doesn't stop running with his head held high.'

Kazuya's body is already lurching forward from the momentum of throwing the ball back at him post-pitch, but he suddenly stills in place and the ball doesn't end up leaving his fingers at all. 'Pardon?'

Sanada tips his head over to the general direction of where Sawamura's doing laps on the field, and flashes a dim smirk. 'For bearing with all that fast thinking, he's exceptionally patient.'

The playful dig at him is harmless, but a hazy memory of hands and skin and heat crosses his mind – that day in the locker room, during which his brain dribbled musings all the way from beginning to end; his mouth twists mildly, because remarkably, truth weaves through Sanada's words. Rationality forms the core of how he steers himself – in clever gameplays as well as off the field – and his thoughts are unremitting and machine-fast, brimming with measured calculations that precede every action: space for giving way to organic emotion is often scarce when his foundation's teeming with computations. 'Things aren't always straightforward and simple,' he replies tonelessly, raising his hand again and nimbly tossing the ball back.

'Is that so?' Sanada counters somewhat cheerily, stretching a sturdy arm out and catching it with ease. He adjusts his cap and rests a casual hand on his hip, near-warbling, 'Because it looks like he takes them simply and straightforwardly. If he likes you, he'll let you in. That's all there is to it, I've noticed.'

Well, Sawamura likes everyone; but Sanada's right in that. And maybe some sixth sense within Sawamura can feel that he's being talked about, because his eyes briefly turn to them as he runs past the outside of the bullpen, and there's a quick, twitched upturn of his lips before it disappears – a midway-smile that Kazuya's seen from him a few times lately, one that appears to have a partial presence – barely visible, but still as luminous as the sun, even in its transience. Then that shining gaze slides away, and he's running off, gone.

'Yeah,' answers Kazuya evenly. Softness rolls inside his chest; he takes in a muted breath, and says, 'That stupid honesty's always been who he is.'

Sanada pauses abruptly for a moment, as if he's seen something unpredictable in Kazuya's visage. Then his face unexpectedly loosens, and he gives a gentle laugh.

'You know, I might've made that jab about some painted bird looking more unguarded than you, but something's different now,' he teases. 'Did he do that? There may be some hope for you yet.'

Even as Kazuya's setting his mitt into place and curtly instructing, 'Again,' Sanada's all easy smiles and happy compliance. And Kazuya sniffs, because perhaps the smallest part of him knows why he's disconcerted by the similarity: Kazuya's the one with whom Sawamura shares a history in Seidō, and yet Sanada's the one who effortlessly stands in that simple world of primary colors with the other boy – that alien space of naturally seeing everything without numbers and mechanisms whenever desired, an expanse that lies quite separate from Kazuya's own black and white and grey. Sounds nice, maybe.

Somehow, Sawamura still appears rather drained when Kazuya drops by later that night, even though it's been days since he's completed his paper; Kazuya takes one look at the faint circles flourishing upon the undersides of those eyes and his stomach curls with a touch of something like regret. It's too late, however, because Sawamura's already meekly rubbing the back of his head and mumbling: 'Hi. Sorry, I kinda – I don't know if I have the energy for that tonight. It's been a long day.'

Unquestionably, Kazuya fully understands. He's wanted to let Sawamura be, to let him rest, from the very second that the other boy had opened the door and revealed his face: maybe that's the captaincy instincts from his Seidō days kicking in – or maybe it's more. And yet, either way, he still can't stay the dim wonder that trickles over him upon hearing the rejection put into words; before this, Sawamura's never turned him down.

'Of course,' he answers levelly. The statement falls out of his mouth like it's automatic, like it's programmed into him, and that invisible wall discreetly slides up; as usual, having been built with the tools of rationality and logic, he'll deal with things as they come. But Sawamura actually looks thoroughly unimpressed at that, upper lip curling on one side, the space between his brows creasing.

'Idiot. Why do you look like that. I want to,' he admonishes with emphasis. 'Can't believe I'm saying this, but it's you – of course I'd always want to. I'm just really tired today and that probably won't feel very good for you. You can still stick around, if you want.'

How typically, painfully selfless of Sawamura to spare Kazuya's comfort such attention; an indistinct ripple blossoms within Kazuya's belly. And aside from that, an undercurrent of a genuine offer glides beneath those words – that's no throwaway, offhand remark that Sawamura's just made.

'… Alright. Just until you fall asleep.'

'Sure,' answers Sawamura with surprise, lips subtly curving, shaping a semi-smile that lingers upon his features this time. He opens the door wider to let Kazuya in, and Kazuya excuses himself in a low breath as he enters; the other boy then closes the door behind them and switches off the light, and even in the leaden darkness, Kazuya can glimpse the warm glimmer of those eyes as Sawamura gestures towards the bed.

He's exceptionally patient, Sanada had remarked; Kazuya languidly twirls the word over and around his tongue. That's what it really comes down to, isn't it, those moments when Sawamura modestly comments on his quick departures even in their inevitability, the fact that he bears no frustration or resentment over it, and the smattering of slight half-smiles that he'll impart on occasion, like just now. Kazuya never senses any faux quality to the other side of those smiles; Sawamura unmistakably isn't hiding anything behind them – he's honest to his very being and never dons any kind of mask. No, the partway-smiles feel like they bear acceptance, as if Sawamura knows what he's gotten himself into, but still readily takes it all exactly the way it comes. And they feel like they hold patience: as if despite being empty-handed even until now, he'll patiently wait nonetheless for something that he believes, with all of his heart, will surely come – and trusting in it with the same unconditional faith that he gives Kazuya whenever he stands upon the mound.

The fracturing of ice bricks inside Kazuya's chest cavity is so clear-cut that he can almost hear it, can almost feel the slow, rumbling aftershocks quaking against the inner layers of his skin.

Sawamura crawls into the bed, and Kazuya follows, clambering in after him; it's somewhat immaculately lovely, a first time, which is noteworthy considering they've done nearly every wanton thing in this bed – and yet they've never done this: a scene worthy of that enormous picture frame and the gallery of mortal moments that they've collected together. Sawamura settles, and Kazuya moves in so that his chest is closely pressed against Sawamura's back; he leisurely wraps an arm around the other boy, and it comes as a mild curiosity when a single appreciative caress graces the inside of his palm, before Sawamura's fingers coil around his.

'… It's alright? Isn't my skin cold?'

'A little cool, yeah. But not as much as usual, for some reason, so it's okay. God, this is weird, I didn't think I'd actually be falling asleep with you here for once,' Sawamura snuffles good-naturedly, his weighted voice already drowsy. 'You'd better be careful; at the rate you're going, I might get to wake up with you here one day, too. Maybe we can do this in your dorm as well sometime? You still haven't told me where it is.'

'Didn't I tell you that it'll be awkward with a roommate watching,' Kazuya deadpans. But then he drawls, light-heartedly: 'Unless you're into that.'

Sawamura lets out a miniscule croon with mild amusement laced within it, and downy tendrils of velvet bloom and knit themselves into Kazuya's very innards, a mellow sensation that's vaguely close to fondness, maybe. He languorously strokes small whorls onto the backs of Sawamura's fingers, and all of his senses taper to just this: whatever misgivings he may carry, they start fading, start transforming into distant grey mirages, hardly perceptible and eliciting only bland disinterest.

'You know, you're always cold and far away, but at the same time, you're really not,' Sawamura blurts out all of a sudden. 'And even with that crappy personality, you're actually – surprisingly incredible.'

Kazuya reflexively lifts an eyebrow, even though the other boy can't see it. 'Not sure whether to be offended or pleased.'

'It's a compliment – for once,' mutters Sawamura, giving a loud, unrestrained yawn that rounds out his words, delicately plumps them up, makes them guiltless and whole. 'You're always so … steadfast, I guess? I don't know, you always take everything in stride, on and off the field, like you're doing now. The team really looks up to you, and it was like that back at Seidō too … you inspire everyone. It's like you're on a different plane. Sometimes it makes me wonder why you're into me.'

With that, the world unexpectedly mutes, and it's as if Kazuya's stomach folds in upon itself. Throbs of veins jumble into knots and illusory wings unfurl inside him, feathers brushing sensitively against pulsating organs, leaving burning imprints on Kazuya's thumping heart. His toes curl; he faintly swallows, lightly slides his eyes closed to stop any unruly sentiment from bleeding through, and takes some time in a soft, slow inhale. His jawline sets, and he quietly nestles his face into Sawamura's hair.

'Moron. All of that …' he whispers, rickety resolve stumbling behind a deceptively clear voice, hot breath faltering at Sawamura's nape. 'That's my line.'

He hears a temperate understanding within the silence, as though both of them have their answers; Sawamura squeezes Kazuya's fingers, and Kazuya gently reciprocates, heart full and tender and heavy. They exchange no more words, and lie there still, burrowed securely into each other, until Sawamura's breathing slows, deepens, and he slips into slumber.

Kazuya pauses and waits a little longer, surreptitiously delaying this moment, before he untangles himself with some unconscious measure of reluctance. The heat of Sawamura's skin wafts away from his, and he composedly averts his gaze; it's a parting that's scarcely different from any other of their shared nights, yet now, the sensation and the action are somehow pooling into bulkier weights dangling from his fingertips. He rises from the bed regardless and moves to make his way out – and then, a torpid rustling of sheets and a warm sleep-smothered mumble drift past him.

So he looks back. Sawamura's still fast asleep, but he's turned around in the bed to face Kazuya's direction, all lax limbs and sweeping lashes and sloppily-open mouth. And perhaps it's wrong, how Kazuya keeps his doors firmly shut, yet now that Sawamura isn't awake he can untighten himself and let them open even a touch, can allow himself to unravel even slightly, can strip away lingering reservations until there's barely any illusion left. But nevertheless, he unclenches his palm and throws all caution to the wind; he walks back and leans over, intertwining loose fingers within Sawamura's, and brushes his lips against Sawamura's temple, weightless and air-light.

'See you tomorrow,' he murmurs in a hushed breath, before he withdraws.

He leaves. The small splash of garnet red outside his room only just touches his peripheral vision when he gets there; no sugary gestures, huh, he thinks. His eyelids lower halfway, and he casually chews on his tongue.

For once, Sanada stays wordless when Kazuya enters their room. A pleasant smile slides over those steady features, as though he perceives something, but he offers Kazuya nothing more.

In the end, it's a modest phone call that does it. Kazuya thinks it's funny, how events can sometimes simply play out like this, in such a way that he may actually be a little tempted to believe in fate despite his rigid, deep-set wall of rationality. He doesn't even really mean to be there at that precise time; practice has finished and he's already meant to have long left. He doesn't exactly mean to listen in. But he catches his own name spilling from the tip of Sawamura's tongue whilst the younger boy is casually zipping up his fleece jacket, phone messily squeezed between his ear and his shoulder, and before Kazuya knows it, his body's already abruptly stilled of its own accord outside the doorway of the locker room.

'… Well, Miyuki-senpai seemed to think so? He said my pitches were pretty impressive today! I'll have to keep that up next practice. Huh? Oh … yeah, he's – been doing pretty well. He's always good.' Sawamura's voice unexpectedly softens at those words and a strange tranquility creeps over his features, despite the lack of a palpable smile upon them; the shift in tone is quite astonishingly clear, like a rough tumble from a great height into a valley of downy feathers. It's swiftly followed, however, by a comically scandalized expression decorated by the most pinched-looking eyes and furrowed brows. 'Haaah, Harucchi, what are you asking. Stop saying embarrassing things, that's really gross; if Miyuki-senpai heard you … we – no, maybe I'll tell you if you come out for lunch with me sometime. Actually, I'm thinking of doing a random picnic tonight, yosh! Dunno, just feel like it. I wish you could join me!'

He supposes that all living, breathing things that move must surely have a built-in nature whence they understand an imminent beginning or end, in fights for survival, in self-preservation, in courtship rituals, in learning to fly. Instinct lies with Kazuya's skeleton as its shadow, as much a part of him as tangible flesh, and he can hear it coming, louder than any sound that his ears can catch: his own end – or perhaps beginning; they lovingly braid themselves together like death and rebirth, like a fire-red phoenix rising from its own ashes, and it's becoming quite difficult to tell the two apart. But it's there, resonating within Sawamura's generally merry tenor, that lulling of his tone when Kazuya had become centered within the conversation, that warmth in his face that rivals the expression he wears when he's playing the baseball that he adores beyond measure. Birdsong ghosts over the back of Kazuya's neck in airy trills, tremors portentously across the stretch of his skin; he feels it all.

Surprisingly, when he curiously strides back out to the field later that evening, Sawamura's indeed there, just as he'd said he'll be. It's a rather meager picnic that he's set up: an old, tatty sweater used in place of a blanket; a small shoulder bag used in place of a basket; and judging from the array of chocolate and candy spread out at Sawamura's feet, there's no real picnic food to speak of. Kazuya bites his teeth tightly together, a sliver of a cutting exhale escaping from the gaps between them, and he nearly laughs at the sight.

'Shut up,' Sawamura glowers, turning slightly to face him without really looking at him. 'I just felt like doing something for myself, okay. And I actually haven't eaten any of it. Turns out I'm not that hungry.'

There's an unusual solemnity to that that turns Kazuya's amusement into quiet respect; he wonders if Sawamura means that he'd felt like bringing himself some extra cheer, that he'd wanted some trivial bit of happy recreation to help keep himself fixed and unwavering. The surrounding air unexpectedly fills with a swelling gravity that's not entirely his own, vaguely stifling and yet also contradictorily distant all at once.

He chooses not to respond at all, but it turns out he doesn't have to; to his mild surprise, Sawamura suddenly stirs to life as if no silent respite's passed, and he starts gauchely scooping up the confectioneries by the handful, dropping them into the open bag with unceremonious nonchalance. 'Okay, I think I'm good. Come on! Let's go.'

Kazuya nods, and calmly watches Sawamura until he's finished and all the sweets have disappeared from sight; at which point he bends over, levelly sweeps up the bag by the handles, and reflexively extends his free hand to Sawamura with no second thoughts. And it makes it somewhat more fascinating when the other boy stares at him briefly in minute surprise, benign regard blanketing his expression, as if there's something within the action that Kazuya's perhaps not entirely aware of, as if the plain gesture seems oddly more intimate now than it's ever been. But he's spared no additional time to mull it over, because Sawamura surely reaches back and takes the hand in a sturdy grasp, palm hot against palm; Kazuya pulls him up, and Sawamura rises in a single lithe movement, taking the dirt-streaked sweater with him in his fluid ascent. That's that – they release each other and leave, soothingly walking off side-by-side, letting themselves be enveloped by the wispy off-black tulle of the shadowy darkness and the cool nighttime air.

'… How did you know I was out here, anyway?' Sawamura asks, naïve suspicion weaving into a crinkled nose and knitted brows.

'I was walking past while you were on the phone,' answers Kazuya, shrugging impassively. 'I actually heard you mentioning it.'

'So you specifically came all the way out here just to find me.'

Kazuya offers a wan smile at that, blowing an affable puff of air through his nose, and he slings an arm good-naturedly around the other boy's shoulders. 'Am I the type to do something I don't want to do?'

One of those homing doves indeed, just as Sawamura had said. He's had the free will to flit wherever he pleases, yet he always finds himself gravitating back to Sawamura, no matter how persistently he departs – one reaches their hand out to a bird long enough and it may grow accustomed to being there, unafraid and tame. Sawamura's mouth skews and he doesn't answer; however, he wraps his arm around Kazuya's waist and near-humbly nudges his head against Kazuya's ear, a gesture that perilously teems with subtle affection and trust, so frankly given like it's second nature. How remarkably easily that trust is gifted; there's still a fledgling inside Kazuya that had blossomed to his prime in a virtually-unoccupied nest, that offers only a sparing degree of trust to teammates and to those whom he believes has good reason. But here he is, having immaculate daydreams of what it's possibly like to stay upon the hand to which he's continuously returned. And that's really what Sawamura's been wordlessly patient with, isn't it, Kazuya taking his own time; such a straightforward boy, and he can harbor such profoundly complex emotions, yet he acts upon them in the simplest and most uncomplicated ways.

That thought rides upon Kazuya's back, clinging to him all the way to Sawamura's dorm. They enter the room when they get there, unspeaking and calm, and soundlessly close the door behind them; their arms leave each other and their bodies part without any haste, lingeringly, perhaps somewhat reluctantly. Sawamura gracelessly dumps his sweater onto his study chair, and Kazuya places the bag down onto the desk, and in some way, there's a weighted finality to the following silence that seems all the more heavy when accompanied by that unblemished honey-yellow gaze: the collar of Kazuya's t-shirt is suddenly fairly tight around his neck, and the air in the room a little too thin to inhale. He can feel it, the sharp pinch of each of those self-maneuvered puppet strings pulling him taut, so tight that the fine lines tense precariously and every corner of his being is fiercely stretched open, unmasked and exposed, vulnerably defenseless. Submission bleeds from the cracks of his ribcage, and he releases a scrap of a breathy chuckle through barely-parted lips.

'I give in, Sawamura,' he says, heart dimly thumping against the roof of his mouth.

Sawamura pauses and stares at him, eyes wide. 'What do you mean,' he mumbles, low and rough, but there's a concentrated intensity to his expression that makes it apparent that he knows exactly what Kazuya means. It's as though he needs to hear it again, if only to make sure that he hasn't heard wrong.

Kazuya reaches out chastely to Sawamura's elbow, faintly touches that coarse skin with tender fingertips, and slowly traces down the pendulous line of Sawamura's forearm; and still further down, past the slender wrist where he can just about sense the blood coursing through in a quickening pulse, all the way to the pliable flesh at the base of Sawamura's thumb – which he closely curls long fingers around, nestling their palms together. It's consolingly warm, Sawamura's hand in his, a gracious reminder of the way they're present here, right now, breathing and alive and real.

'It means exactly that,' he murmurs, because he's not certain that there's any other way to say it. It's a laughably banal answer, coming from the usually-analytical, quick-thinking Miyuki Kazuya; but logic and rationality are already far behind him at this point, and for once, he's turned away from the creeping tendrils of uncertainty in his peripheral vision and permitted worldly emotion, in all its helpless hunger and yearning, to drape its immense silken wings around him – shrouding him in a temperate embrace until it's swallowed him whole. And he more than welcomes it, arms outspread. 'It's pretty obvious that I'll never be lost to you after all.'

Sawamura's breath quiets as though the earth and the skies have moved; his hand leaves Kazuya's and lean palms rise to curve over Kazuya's shoulders, dotingly framing each side of his throat, and that's it, at last. Kazuya's eyes calmly flutter to a close and those strained puppet strings finally snap resoundingly; all the fissures within the rigid ice wall unroll in elongating branches, grinding and deepening and rupturing – and then it all starts chipping apart in glistening shards, thawing and crumbling, dissolving and melting away, down and gone, until all that's left behind is space for his lungs to ultimately breathe. How relieving it is, letting it all go, letting himself yield, letting everything be. So tranquil, restful, crystal flakes rising in the aftermath like ashen downs. Acceptance is a solacing half-light, graceful and sublime.

'Oi, Miyuki Kazuya.'

His eyes slide open, and he's met with the other boy's steady gaze, focused and resolute and certain, nearly a mirror image of the faithful conviction that he always imparts from over at the mound; so guiltlessly honest, with no discolored motivations or cloudy thoughts – just himself. The other boy moves in, dusky lashes lowering partway, and he carefully, delicately touches his nose and lips to Kazuya's cheekbone.

'… What the heck do I even do with you,' he sighs, mouth supple and breath hot against Kazuya's skin. 'Totally unbelievable. But I sure as hell am not ever gonna be lost to you either.'

Such an absurd exchange of confessions; Kazuya laughs incredulously, a short tangle of a sound untwisting itself to eventual freedom at the peak of his throat. His mind recalls that strange fantasy – of Sawamura gradually fading from his eyes, leaving Kazuya alone upon the evening-cloaked field: silly misgivings that now seem like translucent phantasms, as far away as a forgotten dream. Sawamura's always been the constant, really, as unswerving in everything as whenever he's standing center stage upon the diamond, thrillingly mesmeric in his bearing; the ball can stray and fly anywhere as is a wild bird's wont, and yet it'll always return to the pitcher and his steady hand when everything resets. Just as Kazuya has been, and just as Kazuya wants to. It's not a sensation he's been entirely familiar with throughout his youth, but being with this ridiculously endearing brat certainly feels just the way he imagines a homecoming may be.

God, all of him is so full to overflowing that he seriously just wants to kiss Sawamura right now – so he shifts over, brushing the tips of their noses together in a soft, serene caress, and then he closes the gap between them. And nothing can possibly grant him more peace at present than this, Sawamura kissing him back, lax and gentle; Kazuya's hand comes up, securely closing over the one that's laid upon his shoulder, slackly twining their fingers together, and he realizes that this is exactly right. It's that very same kiss that he'd pictured but turned away from back in the locker room, that he's since held only in misty, ephemeral thoughts: the kiss with no reservations behind it, that he doesn't need to make excuses for, into which he's funneling everything that he's ever pushed down and tried to dismiss. A dampened quaking crowns his fingertips, as though the two of them have never kissed each other at all before this, as though it's wholly new and exploratory, an innocent sapling flowering in the shadow of their thousandth kiss.

'Good,' he whispers against Sawamura's mouth. And he can feel the easy bend of Sawamura's wholehearted grin against his own lips in response, a full smile that no longer bears a half-presence: content, complete, like he's altogether whole, like they both are, like they've fused and taken the sound shape of their truth. Miyuki Kazuya may have clothed himself in a pelt of illusion, but he's never been an illusion; he supposes he's truly always been there after all, deep within, perhaps lacking a distinct form, but no less real. Pondering, thinking, waiting, maybe even hoping for the moment that he'll be fully stripped down to his naked bones and flesh, revealing his ever-present actuality for all to see, for Sawamura to see – the exhibition of an intimately expressive work of art. It's more than clear now, this very instant that he's molting the sliding, cracking skin of the trompe-l'œil, breaking out of his self-painted portrait in a whirlwind of dark red feathers, as red as his pulsating lifeblood; it's a flight of freedom with Sawamura at his side, an allaying release as boundless as the open sky before them, as real as what they have between them.

Sawamura half-heartedly breaks away and moves to Kazuya's cheek with a hum, lips and voice thrumming against its hollow as if in quaint song; gawky hands fiddle at the hem of Kazuya's t-shirt, and then down to his fly – idle fingers courteously imploring, coyly flirting with his trousers, and discreetly, deftly unclasping them. 'How long have you wanted to say it?'

'Don't know,' says Kazuya thickly. Except he does know. 'Maybe always.'

'What a jerk,' the other boy deadpans, his tone dry; but comprehending forgiveness is finely, earnestly scrawled all over his countenance, and he calmly hooks bent forefingers into the belt loops of Kazuya's waistband and pulls him along, guiding him over to the bed. 'Sure took your time.'

'Guess I did.' The admittance is a touch wistful; Kazuya wrinkles his nose, casually descending onto the covers. 'I'm here, though.' Pretty much wherever you are, believe it or not, he nearly says, but he stays silent, because he's sure that Sawamura sees it, as clearly as he knows it himself.

'Yeah,' Sawamura breathes. He lissomely climbs onto the bed with Kazuya, a slender hand bracing itself demurely upon Kazuya's ribs, fingertips mildly pushing him back. And Kazuya readily complies, letting himself be pressed down until he's supine; the air spilling from Sawamura's lips wavers, unsteady, as though sentiment squeezes his lungs, as though his chest cavity is flooding over. 'Yeah.'

Kazuya supplicatingly pulls Sawamura down to him, and maybe he's being generously spoiled with many firsts, because this is more or less the same and yet it feels so different, all of it: the feather-light fluttering of lips at Kazuya's ear, and the earthen scent and taste as Kazuya tongues fever into the underside of Sawamura's jaw; Sawamura all over him, all around him, swelling above him like an undulant wave; Sawamura's knuckles flitting at his waist, and hands joining Kazuya's, together, in inelegantly tugging Kazuya's trousers and underwear away from wiry hips, from spindling legs; Sawamura moving his way in and nestling himself securely within the cradling of Kazuya's naked thighs – everything, comfortingly familiar and yet new all at once.

And it's almost an alleviation, the single open-mouthed kiss and Sawamura's teeth catching on Kazuya's lower lip, the fingertips drifting over Kazuya's lower belly and Sawamura unhurriedly sliding down, down, pressing his lips sensitively to the slight curve of Kazuya's hipbone, and then taking Kazuya into his mouth – such that Kazuya can't help but keenly twist lean fingers into Sawamura's hair, clenched muscles tightening the bends of his knuckles. He's already slipping, dark vignette upon his eyes and spine pulling taut while Sawamura slowly licks him to perfect hardness, wet warmth kissing over the tip, caressing him to life; stable palms hold Kazuya's quaking hips steady, and there's nothing but this, yet it's so much, a white-hot shimmer smoldering at all his nerve endings and his skin trembling to its lowest layers with oversensitivity. He sedately, languorously rolls into that encircling damp heat, eyelids fleetingly skimming closed beneath the rich volley of sensation, and it's a marvel how everything feels like more than usual, because he thinks that he can probably come just like this. Sawamura's hand withdraws from the apex of Kazuya's thigh, and even without looking, Kazuya can tell by the way Sawamura shifts and his lips faintly stumble that he's swiftly working his own trousers free and wrapping firm fingers around himself, that he's indulgently stroking in time to the languid tempo measured by his tongue.

He's drenched in all the sensuous rhythm of it, trickling over him in sheer veils; somehow, Sawamura has progressively, unknowingly found his way into that crux where Kazuya's treasured sport sleeps and wakes – really, baseball has always lovingly trailed a line down the contour of his breastbone, cleaving through the joined seams of skin and flesh, stitching itself within sinewy limbs and heaving muscles, taking root at the innermost chambers of his heart. And now, without being conscious of it, Sawamura's also sinuously melded into him there: that central portion of him where his true self lies unshakable, the real Miyuki Kazuya who loves his baseball with untainted honesty, who often still bears the soul of a little boy with constellations sparkling in his eyes and in his dreams. He's here, catching his passions with the same devotion with which he catches each and every pitch that's thrown at him: it's always so hot, so beautiful, Sawamura's skin against his – simple rough friction and sweat-slicked touches pouring across the entirety of his worldview, until everything else around him clouds over. Kazuya only just vaguely registers, within that haze, what Sawamura's doing when the other boy transitorily extracts himself and reaches over him to rummage at his bedside drawer, and he bites back his laughter when it distantly sinks in: that he's finally stepped upon the threshold of that far-off plane, that world of primary colors that Sawamura inhabits, and Sanada and nearly everyone else too, where there are no complex calculations or computer-fast analyses or too much thinking. Right now, he doesn't want to think about anything. Not when he can relinquish all of it and just feel.

So he lets every remaining thought go, as surprisingly easily as he's losing any leftover grip on himself, so that there's only this. There's only Sawamura, a stunning portrait of pink-painted ears and breathless impatience and Kazuya's downfall, a picturesque art piece that Kazuya craves to hang up on every wall he'll see; the fumble of Sawamura's hands between them in preparation is pleasant, fingers messy and heated, working straightforwardly on himself, and lingeringly, thoughtfully, gently on Kazuya. There's only Sawamura graciously bending down to give the tip of Kazuya's nose a sentimental rub with his own, and Kazuya licking wetly, softly into Sawamura's mouth, their hot, damp breaths intermingling between them, suspended in that space like a curtain of stars. There's only the two of them walking this very thin tightrope together: Sawamura slowly, reverently grinding into him with a broken whisper of Miyuki, Miyuki spilling from his lips like a prayer for mercy, skin slippery against skin, until pools of heat swell between Kazuya's thighs, a flame-eager rippling; he cuttingly sucks in a sliver of air through his teeth, leisurely folding his legs up and around Sawamura's hips in a cherishing embrace, and evenly, warmly rocks against him in answer. There's only Kazuya's low hisses of 'Come on, come on, Sawamura,' – and Sawamura lining himself up and carefully pushing into Kazuya's body not long later, finally, and the tense, tight pressure that accompanies it generously washes away any other ache that he may possibly have harbored: solace.

It feels almost as though Sawamura's sliding his fingertips over Kazuya's fractures and cracks, unreservedly pouring himself into them and filling them up until their rims shut and mend; as though Sawamura's laying light kisses upon marked throbs in Kazuya's skin, until they fade and heal over. And the overwhelming abandon brimming in Kazuya's chest is probably transparently visible on his features, because Sawamura suddenly draws in; he tenderly lays his forehead against Kazuya's, before gently pressing his lips once to each of the barely-there, unexpected pinpricks of moisture at the corners of Kazuya's eyes.

'You okay?' Sawamura utters, throat flushed with shameless wanting, voice raspy and uneven and submerged in shallow breaths. He's gazing straight into Kazuya's face, yellow glistening over and fixing upon Kazuya in considerate attention, and Kazuya reckons that perhaps it's not so bad to be openly looked at like this after all, particularly if he's mutually regarded as the apple of that eye.

He leans up to Sawamura, thinly panting, and appreciatively kisses the edge of his mouth with a heartfelt grin. 'Of course.'

If only that giant picture frame can display them now. He traces blunt nails along Sawamura's waist and brings his arms around him, exhaling pleading surrender into the summit of his throat; he coils long fingers into the bare skin at the base of Sawamura's spine and holds the other boy tight against him while they move together, until he can all but sense their racing heartbeats blending like melody and harmony, because Sawamura will feel like he's a world away if they're not closely pressed together, and that's completely out of the question. But then again, he knows he'll always be right where Sawamura is, just as Sawamura will always be right where he is, too.

Yeah, he's more than okay.

A glimmering spectrum of pigments paints across his vision, smearing brushwork filling his sight with every color in existence and with the slow burn of white, and he's never been better.

… Miyuki-senpai. Hey, Miyuki.

A murmured call mildly pulls him from a watercolored dream. His eyes still bear the imprint of a stonewashed silhouette perched upon raised ground, sixty feet and six inches away; of an entrancingly irregular form languidly swelling its muscles, winding up, and steadily expanding its limbs like a rustle of unraveling wings; its left arm in quick movement, a rapid surge of air, and dust rising from the earth like slender branches rocking in the aftermath; and creaking round leather soaring, breaking into color before him, slowly rupturing into a shower of dark red plumes. Shades of garnet fall like temperate rain, drifting onto his shoulders, gliding against his brow, and he awakes to warm fingers sweeping the locks of hair from his forehead; he blearily stirs, opens his eyes to the dim light of a study lamp, and to mellow gold – a calm, amber-dappled scrutiny.

'Ah … my bad. I must've dozed,' mumbles Kazuya, rasping voice still stifled with sleep and hazy thoughts muffled with tufted billows of cotton wool; deep red droplets ripple at the back of his mind and dissolve in stretched, fading threads, melting and thinning out, a pale afterimage dissipating and washing away from plain sight.

Sawamura airily lets out a lilting, affirmative hum, and modestly draws that lean hand away. 'That's okay. I've never seen you like that – like you have your guard down. It's kinda novel.'

The sentiment vaguely echoes Sanada's offhand comments about unguardedness, but remarkably, it's not smothering or tiresome to Kazuya at all – contrarily, it almost breathes swirls of crisp, fresh air into the tunnels of his veins. Sawamura is just barely pressed against him, his body heat rolling within the crack of space between them; he watches Kazuya with patience, wordlessly untroubled, a slow bloom of sunflowers in his eyes and a peppering of pastel-soft stars over the lopsided curve of his lips. Kazuya casually shifts in the sheets onto his side, turning so that the two of them are fully facing each other, and he reaches out a hand to lightly skate slim fingertips down the pliant, nude skin of Sawamura's hip.

'… I'm in dorm twelve,' he says.

The entirety of Sawamura's visage suddenly goes lax in evident surprise.

'It's in the next building. There's a painting right outside the room: a blood-red bird flying off a branch.' Just an artwork, he muses. A delicate masterpiece to be beheld, admired and appreciated – but simply that. It's funny to think that he'll walk past it from now on and it'll evoke no more bizarre thoughts; he questions nothing further when optical illusion's been peeled away, when only actuality's left behind, when he's opened his doors to let another heart in and that absurd boy has inconceivably, unknowingly managed to fill that stark, vacant space that he's always quelled and locked away. 'Come over tomorrow – or whenever you like. We can chat away into the night, or we can do this again … or both.'

'Both sounds pretty great. I'll have to remember to bring some soda,' Sawamura responds, eyelids lowering midway with subdued cheer, pupils dilating to full and dark and unthinkably charming. He snakes in a little closer and skims the coarsened pads of his fingers across Kazuya's collarbone, adding: 'What about your roommate, though?'

'Sanada's pretty laid-back. I don't think he'll make a fuss about clearing out if I tell him you're coming. Or we can just come back here if we want to be considerate. I'm good with anything, really.'

Sawamura emits a single incredulous titter, clipped short but unmistakably rich with amusement. 'All this time, your roommate was Sanada-san.'

Kazuya nods once, silken cords unfolding inside him and branching in growth, following the lines of his nerves and the contours of his body, a subtly graceful sensation of the tiniest affection. It all feels comfortable and familiar, as if things have always been like this. Friends with benefits, is it? No, it's always been far more than that, in years of unwavering partnership, in victory and cheers of jubilance, in loss and tears of pain, in relaxed conversations in the hallways, in harmless, stubborn banter, in easy mutual laughter, in leisurely evenings spent contentedly together, in labels that they aren't going to give themselves, in ways too complex and layered and deep-set to really be put into words. They've always held everything between them, in unvoiced understanding. In any length of time spent with each other. In moments like these.

'… Anyway, I woke you up 'cause I know you'd want to hurry back as usual.' Sawamura absentmindedly withdraws his hand to rub the back of his head, boyishly tousling his hair into misshapen, irregular clumps; considerate humility starts flowering in dampened pink over the hollow of his cheeks. 'If you feel like heading off, then don't let me keep you.'

Kazuya stills at that, light heartbeats pulsing at his throat, and he looks back into that naked gaze with coils of muted hope twirling in his chest.

'Actually, if it's alright with you, I—' he starts, and then inadvertently pauses; something close to trepidation flutters along all his ribs, but he steps over it, walks on anyway, lays his trust within the open arms of faith. 'Can I stay?'

Anyone will think he's just parted the seas, the way Sawamura's breathing slows in response, the way every corner of his face unrolls as if nature's just blown life into it, the way his eyebrows slant and his lips helplessly part as if in unfamiliar wonder. And Kazuya can only glance back in equal wonder, because it's mesmerizingly strange, to think that a simple request can carry just as much meaning for Sawamura as it does for him, when he's spent all of his twenty years not really expecting anyone to actively keep him in their thoughts or anything. He's embraced the desolate space left behind when everyone's understandably caught in the continuously-moving tides of their own lives; it's something that he's long accepted as reality, something that he doesn't even think of twice, something that he's nonchalantly dismissed and simply gotten by with, all of this time.

'Are you dumb or something. Why do you make it sound like you don't belong,' Sawamura answers, words clear and full of staunch conviction, but slightly tremulous. He openly pats the thin gap between them on the bed in an obvious, pointed gesture, but his other hand's furtively moving as if it's a natural reflex, as if he's not aware of it, and he's tensely pressing at his own chest with the back of his knuckles. 'The space here's pretty much always been reserved for you. How stupid. You should already know that.'

Perhaps a part of him has indeed always known, deep within his belly and along all the ridges of his spine – just as he's always known, really, that the feeling's unquestionably mutual; Kazuya nearly gives in to an unanticipated compulsion to push at his own breastbone, too, and that silent throb behind it. Look at that: seems like Sawamura will wake up with Kazuya here after all, just as he'd pondered, soothingly rousing side-by-side tomorrow morning, and surely many mornings afterwards. Kazuya shifts over and moves in, tracing fingertips over the rise of Sawamura's shoulder, and gently nudges his nose to the back of Sawamura's ear; he lightly trails his mouth down its shell, voicelessly gracing stray locks of hair with hushed sighs, taking his time all the way down to the lobe and letting that supple flesh collect in the gap between his lips. Sawamura closes around the wrist of Kazuya's other hand with firm fingers, discreet gratification threaded through a snipped inhale, before extracting himself just marginally and letting out a small, quivering chuckle against Kazuya's cheek.

It's somewhat infectious, and Kazuya pulls back, the edges of his mouth quirking a little. 'What?'

'Nothing. It's just—' Sawamura beams, as vibrant as a summer's day, as alive as a curling, licking flame. '… So warm. You feel really warm.'

Unexpectedly, it's true, he realizes; it's as if his body's never held a memory nor trace of cold at all. There's only heat, warmth, enmeshed within the breath issuing from his lips, emanating from his nerve endings and the tips of his fingers and toes, seeping out through all the pores of his skin. And honestly, it feels pretty good. He reaches up and slides a knuckle over Sawamura's jawline, unhurried and admittedly rather fond; Kazuya smiles and contentedly leans in again, this time to kiss him, and Sawamura wholeheartedly comes forward and meets him halfway.

It's said that if a person lets a bird fly away freely and it unceasingly comes back to them, then they're the place that it considers home. They're the one to whom it's trustingly given its heart. A heart so readily offered, and they'll always, always be the one to keep it.

Yeah, sounds about right, Kazuya thinks, serenely creasing the corners of his eyes.

He can most definitely live with that.