Chapter Text
Sawamura walked right past him.
A litany of curses bounced off the insides of Miyuki’s skull and each other. He had reverted right back to his comfort zone of insults and teasing, years of supposed maturity and his game plan flying out the fucking window the moment Sawamura gave him his full attention. Maybe little Kominato was right for saying he needed a chaperone on this trip.
While he waited for a chance to disrupt Donskoi and Sawamura’s conversation, he slipped his phone from his back pocket and sent SOS to Kuramochi. He looked up after tapping send just in time to see Sawamura glance back at him.
He jumped at the opening. In japanese, “Eh Sawamura, why don’t you be a good kohai and show us around your city?”
Sawamura frowned, but turned towards him, arms crossed, “ I’m not a tour guide. ” He responded in English to remind Miyuki they weren’t alone.
Next to him, Donskoi chewed his gum with a tight jaw. The other catcher’s disposition had changed entirely from their introduction earlier. Miyuki had the distinct impression he was being judged.
Miyuki didn’t care. He took a step closer, a lost moon finally recaptured into Sawamura’s gravity. He wasn’t going to leave his presence again so easily. “ Aw , don’t be like that.” They continued to speak in separate languages. “We came all this way,” to see you , he left unsaid.
That addictive spark flared in Sawamura’s eyes, he let a little huff escape, “ I’m busy. ”
Miyuki took another slow step forward, it felt like any sudden movement may cause the pitcher to flee. “Tomorrow then.”
He turned his freckled button nose up at the request, “ I’ve got plans… What day do you fly back? ”
“In a week,” each time he spoke, he moved closer.
“ Darn, ” the brat didn’t even pretend to sound sincere, “ My schedule is slammed until then, ” he waved a hand through the air palm up and shrugged, a non-verbal ‘what can you do.’
“Slammed with what?” Miyuki arched an eyebrow, “‘Washing your hair’?”
“ Vacuuming my ceiling, ” he deadpanned. Monotone didn’t suit him in Miyuki’s opinion.
“Sounds like a two-man job” He grinned. “I’ll help.” He was now standing closer than was polite.
Donskoi pressed a hand to Sawamura’s back. He didn’t even need to say anything, one silent touch was enough to steal the pitcher’s attention back. They shared a look and Sawamura’s expression settled into something calmer, the spark Miyuki had been prodding alive: dowsed.
All around them the production crew was quickly cleaning up the space. The flood lights and softboxes on set had already been turned off and reflectors packed away. The dim overhead fluorescents were still on, but the brightest shaft of light came from the doorway.
A familiar silhouette appeared.
“‘Mura!” At that moment, his best friend’s grating voice sounded like a choir of angels to Miyuki.
“Fucking jesus christ you got tall,” Kuramochi looked up at him and Sawamura had to repress a laugh, “ Don’t you fucking say it.”
He held up his hands in surrender, “I didn’t say anything,” but he was thinking wow, Kuramochi did not grow a single inch after high school, which may or may not be true. It was hard to tell for sure.
“I can hear your thoughts, you bastard.” In highschool, he’d had a couple inches on Kuramochi, but now he had to legitimately look down to make eye contact with the former shortstop. That didn’t stop Kuramochi from standing feet wide, arms crossed, and chin high with confidence.
He was glad he had seen Kuramochi and Kominato waiting with Furuya earlier; so, he wasn’t completely caught off guard. Still, Sawamura had to know, “What are you doing here?”
“Keeping a leash on this loser,” He jutted his thumb through the air towards Miyuki-
-who rolled his eyes in response, “Mochi just jumps at any chance to mooch off my fame.”
“And -more importantly- fortune,” Kuramochi added. “Sportscasters make peanuts compared to ball players. I’m not gonna turn down a free vacay.”
Sawamura looped Donskoi in, “ This is Kuramochi, we shared a dorm in highschool. This is Donskoi, he’s our catcher for the Giants.”
Kuramochi looked Donskoi up and down like a father inspecting their daughter’s prom date, “ Hi, ” before addressing Sawamura again, “He any good?”
Seeing, talking to and touching Miyuki after so many years of two way silence felt like an attack. Emotions that he couldn’t put names to at the time had stabbed in and out of Sawamura’s thoughts since notifications with Miyuki’s name attached had started popping up on his phone. When he found out that Miyuki said they were friends to a reporter like that word was easy for him to throw around, those emotions suddenly grew names: anger, bitterness, and shameful hope. But, for some reason, Kuramochi evoked a completely different reaction.
Having Kuramochi standing in front of him was like driving through an unfamiliar town and seeing a chain restaurant that was your favorite as a child, but you could’ve sworn that they had gone bankrupt and defunct years ago. Would they still have dipped ice cream cones, the ones whose chocolate shells had cracked beneath your baby teeth and melted on immature taste buds?
“Aaron’s the best.”
Kuramochi cackled and elbowed Miyuki in the side, “You hear that?” His eyes danced.
Perhaps it was wishful thinking, but Miyuki’s smirk looked a little forced, “ Sounds like Sawamura needs a refresher on what I can do. ”
The careless promise Sawamura had made via message, Next time you are in San Francisco I'm all yours, and Miyuki’s response , I’m holding you to that, hung over his head, leaving him momentarily without words.
Donskoi popped his gum between his lips, unimpressed with Miyuki’s.. well, everything, “ We should get out of their hair, ” He nodded towards the people working around them.
Kuramochi looked around and caught his meaning. He turned to Miyuki, “Why don’t you go grab the others. I’ll meet you out front.”
Miyuki’s brow was furrowed, an objection on his lips, but Kuramochi gave him a pointed look causing him to concede with a short sigh. He looked at Sawamura, pausing for a moment like he was waiting for something. When whatever he was expecting didn’t come, he said, “I’ll see you,” but it sounded more like, ‘this isn’t over.” Juxtaposing his borderline ominous tone, he waggled his fingers in goodbye over his shoulder as he left.
Kuramochi rolled his eyes, “ Anyway ,” he emphasized like Miyuki was an acidic shot that required a chaser, but his posture changed the moment Miyuki was out of earshot, “Can we talk?” Kuramochi usually stood with an air of immovability, like a monument ready to stand the test of time daring you to try and knock him down. However, at that moment he reminded Sawamura of the base runner he used to be. He kept shifting his weight slightly from foot to foot as though he had taken a huge lead off of first base and was ready to run either direction; his eyes were watching Sawamura like he held the ball that could tag him out, “I really need your help.”
Sawamura wasn’t a good friend. That’s why he and Riachi’s communication was limited to sending memes back and forth. That’s why he collected rainchecks from Chris. That’s why he didn’t visit his hometown. That’s why his nickname was an inside joke that he was on the outside of. Sawamura wasn’t good at being a friend. He knew this. That’s why he felt equal parts guilt and bitterness about losing touch with his highschool teammates. That’s why he wouldn’t- couldn’t call them his friends and why any olive branch felt like consolation he didn’t deserve nor want.
Kuramochi wasn’t offering him anything. There was no pity, no fulfilled social expectation, no dutiful concern- Kuramochi wanted something from Sawamura. Guilt was sticky as tar; bitterness, on the other hand, was something that by itself never clung well to Eijun. Mochi needed him. Of course I’ll help.
“Yeah,” He looked down at his uniform and plucked at the front of his uniform, “Just let me change real quick and I'll meet you outside,” he tilted his head towards the back door that led to the alley behind the building.
He and Donskoi entered their dressing room that was thankfully only shared between the two of them. He pulled off his jersey, letting his undershirt slide off with it. It felt weird changing out of a completely clean uniform.
Aaron placed his fingertips on Sawamura’s bare shoulder, “So.. another highschool ex?”
“Ew, Kuramochi was like my big brother,” he shuddered, “Do not put those images in my head.”
He laughed and dropped his hands to the front of his jersey to unbutton it, “You seemed happy to see him.” He looked down at his hands instead of watching Sawamura’s face, giving him the privacy to react.
Sawamura paused, hands still on his belt mid unbuckle, “Well, I don’t have anything against the guy. We just fell out of touch after highschool. It happens.”
He hummed in neutral agreement, clearly shelving some questions for now.
Sawamura turned his back to Donskoi. Despite the fact that seeing his teammates' bodies literally had zero effect on Sawamura, he made sure to eliminate any potential misunderstanding by being in places like the locker room for as little time as possible, showering first or last by far, and averting his eyes. He’d been lucky enough to live in some of the most progressive parts of this country; so, he hadn’t had a ton of aggressively homophobic teammates. Instead, what he dealt with were strange assumptions, odd reactions, and passive aggressive gossip.
When he had been more social there were more opportunities for sideways comments. Be too eager to chat during a long bus ride, and the conversation might be tempered by a, ‘you know I’m straight right?’ Ask if a classmate had weekend plans to be polite and potentially be rewarded with a, ‘I have a girlfriend.’ Make a friend, and they might ghost you after one too many people comment, ‘You and Sawamura seem.. close.’
He didn’t give his current teammates any opportunities to get the wrong idea; except, Donskoi, but that was one hundred percent the catcher’s fault. So far Aaron had done decidedly the opposite of the above examples. He leaned into it.
After they finished changing, “I’ll catch up to you.” He noticed Aaron’s hesitation, so Sawamura bumped his shoulder against his, “What are you, my bodyguard?”
The corners of Aaron’s mouth lifted, “If I need to be,” with unnecessary sincerity.
He shook his head, chuckling, “I’ll be quick, so don’t ditch me. You’re my ride.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The alley behind the studio was awash of contradictions.
The city of San Francisco had a lot of questionable laws that resulted in odd consequences from even stranger citizens. Like how the Board of Supervisors decided it was fair to fine property owners for having graffiti on their buildings. The idea being that the risk of a five hundred dollar fine would motivate businesses to quickly paint over any that appeared. However, when new paint went up, it was simply seen as a fresh canvas. Layers and layers of paint continued to build up until locals noticed that outdoor murals were usually spared from the spray paint. When faced with someone else's creation most graffiti writers chose to paint somewhere else as a sign of respect from one artist to another.
What really was the difference between the two? When Eijun explored the city as a new resident he had become more and more unsure. There were murals that the city had spent tens of thousands of dollars on to decorate public spaces that looked like bad hotel art with no meaning and there was unsanctioned street art that told the stories of those that lived in the neighborhood with uncensored honesty that money could never inspire. How did the latter end up in the same category as a tag? Regardless, as far as the city was concerned there was but one difference: a permit. So, businesses started commissioning artists to cover their buildings in permitted art to keep graffiti at bay. There was irony to be had in that the venn diagram of these artists and those vandals overlapped quite a bit.
That’s why this alley was filled with both overflowing trash cans and art from end to end.
They didn’t say anything until they walked a bit away from the loading zone where the crew was packing up a box truck. Mochi stepped over the random construction debris and stopped in front of a giant portrait of local firefighters with the silhouette of the Bay Bridge and city skyline in the background. He was less flighty now that Sawamura had agreed to talk, but still seemed to be struggling to find the right words.
“Is everything okay?” he prompted. The easiest possibility would be if Mochi needed money. Sawamura was pretty sure his bank only allowed him to pull out a certain amount at one time. Hopefully whatever limit that was would be enough. They were here for a week, so maybe he would have time to meet with his finance guy if Mochi needed more. Would there be a delay sending it to a Japanese bank account? Maybe he could-
“It’s Miyuki.”
Now Sawamura was baffled. Unless their conversation from before was a farce, it didn’t seem like Miyuki needed money. Sawamura couldn’t think of how else he could be useful to anyone. “Did something happen?”
Mochi looked away from the mural to Sawamura, “I think he’s going through some shit right now and is too much of an emotionally constipated bastard to talk to anyone about it.” Mochi probably knew the specifics, but kept them to himself.
Sawamura’s first instinct was to object to the notion Miyuki was anything other than his normal antagonistic self, but he held back the denial on his lips. He didn’t know what Miyuki’s normal was anymore.
“Well, anyone in Japan at least.”
Sawamura’s eyebrows lifted, catching the implication, “So seeing you guys wasn’t-”
“A coincidence? Nah. We wanted to see you.” Mochi unapologetically studied his expression and Sawamura didn’t know what he saw. “All of us. Miyuki was just the first to admit it.”
Miyuki wanted to see me. If given any room to, a single inch, Sawamura would have denied this fact, he wanted to, but-
Miyuki had messaged him on every form of social media known to man, given Chris the impression he was worried about Sawamura, called him his friend on the record and just practically begged to spend more time with him.
Sawamura tilted his head to the side, “ Why?” He wasn’t sure which ‘why’ he was asking. Why did you guys want to see me after all this time? or Why do you think Miyuki would open up to me when he never has before?
Mochi shifted his weight to the balls of his feet then to his heels a few times, hands deep in his pockets, eyes glued to the painted brick wall instead of meeting Sawamura’s, “Would it be weird to say we want you back-” he glanced sideways -and up- at Sawamura, “-as anything more than a stranger?”
“Yeah, actually,” a startled laugh escaped him.
Mochi turned toward him fully, gaping like a fish. He looked genuinely mortified, red splotches rapidly appearing on his neck and ears.
Eijun grinned, “That's, like, super random.”
His embarrassment quickly turned into relief disguised by faux anger, once he realized Eijun was messing with him. His glare wasn’t as scary as Eijun remembered, in fact it was kind of adorable, like an angry house cat that used to be a feral tom, but lost its edge and puffy cheeks after years of cushy cat beds and canned food.
“Can we start with lunch?”