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Uneasiness snakes its way through the room, tension palpable. Any of the amiableness the night had started with is now gone, replaced by hesitant looks exchanged among those currently sitting cross-legged on the floor of Room 5. It’s not a gradual change, but an abrupt one. Something that begins the moment Miyuki looks at Maezono and asks in an even tone: “Zono, truth or dare?”
The first mistake is that Miyuki chooses to ask Zono, the second is his teammate’s response. “Truth,” the first baseman says with a satisfied huff.
Miyuki nods. Then, as if he’s been ruminating on this for some time, quickly follows up with, “What would you have done differently if you’d been made captain?”
It’s the beginning of the end.
From where he sits—next to Miyuki and across from Zono—Kuramochi Youichi is able to see both of their faces when the question is asked. Zono’s eyes grow wide, brows raised in shock. He looks angry in a way that’s typical for him, the antithesis of the calm front Miyuki currently hides behind. Youichi wants to lean over and deliver a hard elbow into the catcher’s side. It’s been months since their fight, months since everyone else has tried to move on.
Now, at the tail-end of the Winter Training Camp from Hell, on the night before everyone’s meant to go home for a short break, Miyuki decides to unearth a memory that’s meant to stay buried. Because of course he does. Because he’s Miyuki Fucking Kazuya: the perpetual pot-stirrer.
Youichi knows, though, that his teammate is sincere in his question. He wants Zono’s advice, or at least wants a new perspective on how to lead the team. Youichi knows this. The problem is that he’s not the one whose advice is being sought after, and the person who is being called upon doesn’t have the same understanding of all of Miyuki’s -isms that Youichi does.
The look on Zono’s face is confirmation enough: he takes it as an insult.
Youichi wants to kick Miyuki’s ass.
The reactions of the other Seido members vary. Kawakami’s lips part in shock, while Shirasu looks on impassively. There’s a bit of talk between Kanemaru and Toujou that Youichi can’t quite pick up on, likely some sort of reminiscence on what they’d been forced to witness almost three months before. Sawamura starts to say something, only to receive a hand over the mouth from Haruichi, who sits to the pitcher’s left.
Furuya dozes off in the corner, unaware of anything happening around him.
A few of the others, including Asou and Seki, do nothing more than stare at Zono as he lets out another huff before giving his answer. There’s nothing unexpected about his response, Youichi thinks. They’re just some words about making sure those who don’t have a spot on the roster or in the starting lineup feel welcome.
Even though what he says is a reiteration of the same philosophy he’s expressed since making first-string, the atmosphere in the room remains changed. The truths feel more personal after this, the dares more targeted.
Zono asks Kawakami about his thoughts on the current pitching rotation, a question the latter answers with carefully chosen words. He’s genuine when he speaks to Sawamura and Furuya’s strengths, but makes no mention of his own. There’s an underlying sadness in his words that prolongs the discomfort.
“Anyways,” Kawakami says as he takes a look around the room, scanning his teammates for someone to call on. Youichi notices the way his shoulders sag forward, defeated. “Sawamura, truth or dare?”
“DARE!” Sawamura is quick to shout. A wild grin spreads across his face.
Kawakami nods, then says, “I dare you to go twenty minutes without saying a single word out loud.”
The room erupts.
Kanemaru is quick to pull out his phone from the pocket of his jacket, announcing that he’ll set a timer. Youichi stands up and walks over to his desk to grab a pen and piece of paper for Sawamura to write his thoughts on until he’s permitted to talk again. The room experiences a momentary reprieve, full-bodied laughter replacing uneasy glances as they discuss what his punishment will be if he fails to complete the dare.
“You won’t be allowed to ask me to catch for you outside of scheduled practice hours for one week,” Miyuki suggests.
Youichi shakes his head. “You’re going too easy on him,” he says once he’s handed Sawamura the pen and paper and has reclaimed his spot beside Miyuki. “He’ll just get Ono or Kariba to catch for him.”
“Nori was the one who made the dare,” Zono adds. “He should be the one to choose the punishment.”
The attention shifts back to Kawakami, who sits a little straighter as his eyes scan the room. What he’s searching for is unclear, but Youichi suspects it’s likely the case that he hasn’t thought this far ahead, unused to the spotlight suddenly being thrust upon him. He’s the type to follow orders, not give them out.
(Youichi can’t relate.)
The friendly jabs aimed at Sawamura and his presumable inability to keep quiet for twenty minutes drag on as Kawakami takes another moment of careful contemplation. When he’s ready, a hush falls over the room just long enough to hear him say, “If he talks, he has to follow the pace I set during pitcher warm-ups for two weeks. When Miyuki and I agree that he’s done, he’s done.”
Then, the sound of laughter only grows.
Youichi feels an ache in his side the longer he sits there, unable to control himself. “You’re too nice, Nori!” he chides.
“Be ruthless!” Zono adds.
“I will gladly accept whatever punishment you give me, Nori-senpai!” Sawamura says, sitting back on his heels and placing his hands on his thighs. “If it comes to that.” The look in his eyes as he glances around the room is one Youichi knows well, something typically reserved for the moments when he’s standing on the mound ready to strike a batter out—or, when he’s trying to pay Youichi back for all of the headlocks and asskicks and smackdowns he’s endured.
Sawamura is determined.
He gives a final laugh before making a big show of bringing a hand up to his lips to “zip” them up. Kanemaru starts the timer when Sawamura pretends to throw away the key. The room echoes him in his silence, everyone’s attention fixed on him as he scribbles the name of the person he wants to target onto his paper. There’s a satisfied smile pulling at his lips when he sets down the pen and displays the name written in messy scrawl: KANEMARU (︶^︶).
Youichi hears a sigh coming from Kanemaru’s direction before the third baseman responds with a monotone, “Truth.”
The room looks back to Sawamura, who starts to open his mouth to ask his question only to clamp his lips shut when he’s nudged by Haruichi. “You’re supposed to be quiet, Eijun-kun,” he reminds him.
There’s a nod of confirmation before Sawamura brings his hand back up to his lips to make another “zipping” gesture. He throws away the key a second time, and—with his lips resealed—sets to work writing out his question. It takes some time. The room is quick to grow restless as he crosses out words only to rewrite them again. Youichi thinks about making some sort of biting remark about his roommate’s penmanship, but swallows the insult down when Sawamura holds up the paper.
Jesus, he doesn’t say aloud. There’s no way this isn’t going to end in disaster.
“If you had to sacrifice one member of the team to a fiery volcano, who would it be?” Kanemaru reads aloud. “What the hell kind of a question is that, ‘Wamura?”
Sawamura sets down his paper and crosses his arms over his chest, waiting for Kanemaru to answer. The room begins to murmur their own speculations as to who he’ll pick—maybe Toujou as a joke because the two are so close, or Coach Kataoka as payback for the training camp they’d all just endured. Youichi silently wonders if it’ll be Higasa, a prediction rendered false when he hears Kanemaru say, “You.”
He’s looking directly at Sawamura.
“KANEMARU?!”
“Eijun-kun…” comes Haruichi’s voice, his disappointment evident. “You really couldn’t control yourself?”
“Hah!” Kanemaru says then, reaching down to stop his timer. “You lasted less than five minutes.”
Sawamura’s lip quivers, and Youichi has to brace himself for what comes next. He’s spent enough time around his roommate to know that his voice is about to go up several decibels when he speaks. The rest of the room seems to sense it, too—faces scrunching into grimaces when Sawamura’s mouth opens.
It’s as if the room starts to shake then, the dorm becoming the epicenter for whatever tirade Sawamura is prepared to embark on in defense of himself. “SO THIS WAS ALL A SET UP?” he begins. Youichi wants to tell him to knock it off, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he’s not enjoying the spectacle even the tiniest bit.
“No,” Kanemaru says with a shrug as he slips his phone back into his jacket pocket. “It’s just what happens when you’re a moron.”
It takes time for things to settle after this.
Kanemaru targets Toujou, daring him to perform the choreography from Momoiro Clover Z’s Z Densetsu (Owarinaki Kakumei) music video—something the latter is able to accomplish with more ease than perhaps anyone in the room had been expecting. He sits down, face flushed, and calls on Haruichi, who answers: “Truth.”
“If you could play any other position, what would it be?”
“Shortstop,” Haruichi quickly responds, looking over at Youichi and giving him the patented Kominato Smirk when he does. There’s probably something there about wanting to one day form a keystone duo with his brother, but he doesn’t say this aloud. Instead, he dares Furuya to count backwards from 100—which takes longer than it should for the pitcher to complete.
Between Toujou’s dancing and the older players teasing Youichi about him losing his position to the younger Kominato, the air around those packed together in Room 5 has become amiable once more. Even the painstaking process of listening to Furuya count causes a warmth to settle over them; Youichi feels himself wiping tears from his eyes when Asou points out that Furuya went from “forty-five” to “thirty-four,” and that he has to start over in order to complete the dare.
“Want me to show you how it’s done, Furuya?” Sawamura jabs.
“Eijun-kun, no one wants that,” Haruichi informs him, voicing the rest of the room’s unspoken thoughts—Youichi’s included.
There’s a bit of protest from Sawamura until he realizes that his teammate has started counting again, the monotone litany of “one hundred, ninety-nine, ninety-eight…” resigning him to temporary defeat. It takes Furuya two more tries to hit zero, and when he does, the room erupts in applause—not because what Furuya has done is of any great talent, but because him completing the dare means moving on with the game. Finally.
Youichi sits up a little straighter as he waits for the pitcher to call on someone new, figuring his time is bound to come again soon enough. So far, he’s been able to scrape by without having to do anything more than peel a banana nabbed from the dorm’s kitchen without using his hands. Shirasu had been the one to dare him to do it. Youichi wants a challenge, wants to complete some ridiculous task like making a balloon animal out of the condoms Asou allegedly has a stash of.
He wants—
“Miyuki-senpai, truth or dare?”
Damn.
Youichi’s shoulders relax. The expression on his face is impassive when he turns his attention to Miyuki, who offers a predictable “Dare” in response. He’s like Youichi in this regard—choosing actions over words, doing anything he can to keep his secrets guarded. Whatever it is that the catcher holds close to his chest is guarded by a lock missing its key.
(It’s part of the reason Youichi’s own heart remains sealed off, even if he denies that that’s the case. Feelings are complicated, and Youichi doesn’t have time to deal with them—or something like that.)
“Please come catch for me,” Furuya says in the silence.
Youichi feels his lips twitching upward in a smirk the longer he watches Miyuki, whose own mouth hangs open slightly. The look in his eyes is indiscernible behind fogged glasses. Around them, a cacophony of voices sound—ranging from Kanemaru telling Furuya he has to actually say the words “I dare you” for the challenge to be valid, to Sawamura asserting that Miyuki has sworn off all catching until after the break. It’s enough of a distraction for Youichi to safely tuck whatever nonsense had just been bubbling to the surface far, far away, telling himself to save it for a rainy day.
The only thing that matters now is watching Miyuki squirm under their teammates’ observant eyes.
He’s cute like this, is Youichi’s first thought.
Shut the fuck up, is his second.
Outside and unbeknownst to him, a light rain has started to fall—the kind that will turn to snow before long. Youichi’s too busy trying to force down the flush on his cheeks to notice. Too busy turning his attention to a stain on the section of the rug closest to him to care.
“Miyuki-senpai, I dare you to come catch for me right now,” he hears Furuya amend, his soft-spoken tone in opposition to the loud-mouthed protests still coming from Sawamura.
For a moment, Youichi’s certain that Miyuki will give in, that he’ll make some claim about being bored of Truth or Dare anyways and that catching is a more productive use of his time. It’s almost unexpected then when Miyuki says, “Pass.”
Youichi looks up, bewildered. He finds himself temporarily conceding his plan to avoid meeting Miyuki’s gaze in his failing effort to combat the sudden uptick in his heartbeat. There’s an insult about his teammate being a coward waiting on his tongue that he’s forced to swallow back down when Zono interjects with a firm, “You can’t pass! You either complete the dare or you take a punishment.”
Miyuki sighs, long and drawn out. “Fine. I’ll take the punishment.”
Eyes turn back to Furuya—Youichi’s probably the last in the room to do so. When he finally pulls himself together long enough to look away from Miyuki, he notices that Furuya, much like Kawakami several turns back, seems unsure how to handle the added pressure of choosing a punishment. “After the break, I want you to catch for me,” is his solution.
“Okay,” Miyuki responds, sounding bored.
“That’s not a punishment, that’s just your job!” Zono reasons, but it’s a losing battle. Furuya has already stopped paying attention to the game, satisfied that his catcher will catch for him when they return in a few days. The end of his turn leaves Miyuki in charge of a room desperately clinging to the amicable warmth built from the ashes of the last time he asked a question.
Youichi pities whomever it’ll be that the catcher decides to call on, figuring it’ll be either Ono or Asou—who have gone even longer than Youichi has since their last turns. He senses the pot beginning to stir once more. Miyuki will use any chance he can to pull information out of his teammates, to ask questions that would seem sincere had they come from anyone else.
In the silence, Youichi turns his eyes back to the floor, zeroing in on the same stain he occupied himself with earlier as he awaits the reckoning. It’s a position he holds until he hears: “Kuramochi, truth or dare?”
Fuck.
His head snaps up; eyes narrow when they settle on Miyuki. “Dare,” he answers without hesitation. If he’s going to hell, he figures he might as well enjoy the ride. It’s better than answering one of the catcher’s questions, he reasons.
Still, Youichi doesn’t like the expression Miyuki wears: lips pulled taut in an unforgiving smirk and eyes burning with something like satisfaction, the same look he gets when he tags someone out at home. And he really doesn’t like hearing the other boy tell him: “I dare you to say one nice thing about every person in this room.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“What the hell kind of a dare is that?” Youichi asks, scowling. Closed fists sit at his sides; nails dig crescent moons into sweaty palms the longer he stares at Miyuki’s stupid, conniving face.
(Seeing him like this, Youichi isn’t sure whether he wants to punch his teammate or kiss him. The answer is probably both—a horrifying thought given the gravity of the latter.)
Around him, his teammates’ laughter echoes: a chorus of unwelcome snickering broken up only by their equally unpleasant jabs about how hard it’ll be for him to give out honest compliments. He picks out Sawamura’s voice from the rest, his roommate making some comment about how Youichi never verbally praises him, how he only ever offers kicks to the ass or the occasional headlock to show that he cares. It’s a claim Youichi tries to shrug off; he’s certain he has praised Sawamura. He’s certain he’s told at least one of his teammates something affable.
The expression on Miyuki’s face, though, makes Youichi suspect that those moments total less than what he can count on one hand.
Fuck.
Words are hard. For Youichi, it’s always been easier to show how he feels rather than try to put those emotions into something verbal. Even in the instances when he does say something—like mentioning Miyuki’s suspected injury to Shirasu during the Fall Tournament—it’s easier to tell someone else. To let a third party pass along the message when his own mouth runs dry. He knows this about himself, and he’s certain Miyuki’s figured it out, too. They’re two sides of the same coin, after all.
Which is why he wants to punch the bastard in the face when Miyuki reminds him, “If you can’t do it, there’s always the punishment.”
“Like hell I’m takin’ a punishment from you,” Youichi grumbles. He turns his eyes from Miyuki to scan the faces of his teammates: some look apprehensive, unsure what a compliment from Youichi might entail—if he’s capable of giving one at all. Others, the ones he’s closer to—like Sawamura and Zono—seem amused.
I’m going to kill him, Youichi thinks. He doesn’t have to look over at Miyuki to know the other boy’s still grinning at him; he can feel his white-hot stare even now. Still, choking out words that he does mean—just ones he’s not used to saying aloud—remains preferable to enduring a punishment chosen by Miyuki.
Youichi takes a breath to calm himself, then swallows his pride and begins.
He starts with the easy ones. He tells Haruichi that he is more than capable of filling the defensive gap left by Ryou, and assures Zono that the extra hours he logs swinging his bat after practice have paid off. Kawakami is reminded that he’s on the first-string for a reason, that he needs to see himself the way the rest of his teammates do. Shirasu hears about his importance in the lineup as a pillar of both offense and defense.
The words are awkward and gruff as they come out, and the hush that falls over the room doesn’t make the task any less daunting—but Youichi forces himself to continue. Everything he says, he means.
“You’re our Ace for a reason,” he tells Furuya. “We’ll back you up at Koshien, so just do what you always do.” Then he turns to Sawamura and says, “We wouldn’t have made it outta the Fall Tournament without your pitching either, so you better not let up now, Sawamoron.”
He goes through everyone in the room until only one remains. When Youichi turns to look at Miyuki, the other boy’s expression has changed. Gone is the conniving smirk and the burning eyes, replaced by something softer— or as close to soft as Miyuki Kazuya can get. Youichi tells himself not to dwell on it too long. This version of Miyuki—the one with his guard unwittingly lowered—is not one Youichi’s used to, not one that’s likely to stick around.
(But it’s one Youichi thinks he likes.)
There’s a lump in his throat when he swallows, a litany of words he’s unsure how to say waiting on a parched tongue. Irregardless of whatever stupid butterflies currently well in his chest when he looks at Miyuki, this is his friend. Miyuki means something to him—stupid crush (can he even call it that? Does he want to call it that?) or not. Maybe that’s why it’s hard, why the tiny moons digging into his palms grow deeper as he sits there trying to think of something to say. Maybe it’s because the cocky asshole who stumbled into his life almost two years before has had an irreversible effect on his life.
Maybe it’s because the way he feels about Miyuki goes beyond the way he feels about his other teammates. There’s something there, hiding behind observant eyes and impeccably timed insults, that Youichi has spent too many hours working to suppress. That he’s still trying to suppress, even now. Even as he opens his mouth to tell his teammate how he feels.
His breath is shaky on the exhale.
Let’s get this over with.
“You’re a bastard,” he begins. Miyuki looks like he wants to interject, but Youichi is quick to cut him off. “That aside, I know I’ve said it before, but without you, it’s like something’s missing. The team looks up to you, and we rely on you more than we probably should.” It’s the longest he thinks he’s ever talked at once, but there’s more he wants to say. More he needs to say. “You know how to lead the team, so stop acting like you’re supposed to do everything the way Tetsu-san did. And stop trying to do everything on your own; we’re here for you, moron.”
I’m here for you, is the final thought he keeps to himself, tucked away in a heart-shaped box missing its key.
Even after Youichi signals that he’s done, Miyuki doesn’t speak. No one does. A hush blankets the room, creating a suffocating silence that Youichi doesn’t know how to fill on his own. He’s done his talking; there’s nothing left to be said. All he can do in the aftermath is sit.
Sit and wait for a reaction he’s not sure he wants to see.
The expression on Miyuki’s face is impassive, blank. The soft edges Youichi had caught a glimpse of before are gone—not completely rehardened, but closed off just enough for Youichi to notice the change.
Fuck.
There’s a piece of him that wonders if he should have just taken the punishment, if telling his teammates how he felt breached some sort of barrier not meant to be crossed. Miyuki had said it once, that they’re not there to play house. Their relationship off the field holds little weight so long as they come together in the moments spent on it. Those donning the Seido blue and gold alongside him are meant to be his coworkers—boys he aligns himself with to achieve a common goal: winning a national title.
Watching their blank stares feels like something new. Maybe it’s because expressing himself so directly is the first step in admitting that he cares for the boys circled up around him. Maybe it’s because what he’s just done feels a lot like friendship.
(Even if he’s never used this word aloud.)
Fuck.
Youichi’s never been good at friendship. Like any relationship, it requires reciprocacy—a balance of give and take. After spending middle school giving and giving and giving, and finding nothing there for him to take, he let those memories follow him to Seido. Even now, they hang over him like an unforgiving specter, reminding him of what happens when you give your all to people unwilling to return the favor.
And yet, despite this, Youichi continues to care; because at some point—and perhaps begrudgingly so—he realized that he has more in common with the boys gathered around him than just the sport they share. It’s video game sessions with the Kominatos; talking about music with Shirasu and Kawakami. It’s the way he can waltz up to Miyuki’s desk before class starts and never run out of things to say.
Even when he reminds himself not to get too close, those feelings remain—marked in invisible ink beneath the armor of his ironclad heart.
(But caring in secret doesn’t make it any less real.)
Now, though, he’s placed his feelings in the open, made himself vulnerable in a way so atypical of him. The silence that follows feels like a damnation, and Youichi notices the way his pulse quickens the longer it lasts. It’s a quiet that seems to span hours, one that drags on and on and on as he waits for a reprieve—or something to put him out of his misery at the very least. In actuality, it takes less than a minute for this moment to come.
Just as Youichi’s prepared to get up and leave the room—his room—he hears it: a distraction.
A turn of his head reveals Sawamura standing in the center of the room, nodding his approval as his hands come together in applause. “Everyone direct your attention to Kuramochi Youichi,” his roommate says in that persistently loud voice of his. “He has just completed the impossible!”
The rest of the team remains silent, though Youichi notices the way shoulders seem to relax and lips start to twitch upwards. The attention shifts off of him as eyes settle on Sawamura, who has stopped clapping but remains standing in the center of the room. Gradually, the others begin to stand, too—not to applaud Youichi for his efforts, but to announce that they’re going to head out for the night.
Finally, he doesn’t say aloud.
Conversation picks up slowly—gradually—as his teammates head for the door. There are a few final jabs aimed at Sawamura and how little it took for him to fail his dare; Zono chides Miyuki again for accepting such an inconsequential punishment from Furuya. No one mentions Youichi’s dare, but the soundless looks he receives as his teammates leave Room 5 makes him believe they’re at least a little grateful.
(Even if they, much like him, won’t express this gratitude aloud.)
When the door finally swings shut—bringing with it a final rush of winter air that leaves the hairs on Youichi’s arms standing up—four remain. Sawamura and Haruichi hover near the entrance, wrapped up in a conversation Youichi doesn’t bother to eavesdrop on. Instead, he rubs at his arms to warm himself up and turns to face the fourth person still lingering in Room 5.
“Happy?” he asks Miyuki.
The other boy grins at him—a baiting look. “I didn’t know you could be so sentimental.”
“Yeah, well don’t get used to it,” Youichi grumbles. There’s a pause he lets go on a second too long before he adds, “But at least I complete my dares.”
Despite the pause, his words have their intended effect: Miyuki’s grin falters; lips purse together in a pout. He opens his mouth once, then closes it again, letting silence refill their corner of the room. Whatever laughter stems from Sawamura and his conversation with Haurichi just out of their periphery does little to ease the tension budding between them.
Youichi watches Miyuki; Miyuki watches back.
“You gonna say anything?” Youichi asks eventually, eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you can’t because you know I’m right.”
It’s a dangerous game he’s entering, arguing with Miyuki like this. Still, after all but slapping an ‘I probably have a massive crush on you, but I’m not going to do anything about it because fuck you’ onto what he’d told Miyuki less than ten minutes before, Youichi knows he needs to put some distance between them. Needs to deny his feelings from himself and the boy who looks at him and says: “Go on, call me a coward.”
Miyuki sounds bored, like he anticipated this exact scenario playing out in the way it presently is.
It pisses Youichi off.
It gives him an idea.
“How about this?” He starts. In front of him, Miyuki flinches the slightest bit, eyes drifting past him to where Sawamura and Haruichi still stand, oblivious. As if he wants the pitcher to notice his SOS and come over to lighten the mood—to say something asinine enough that it’ll cause Youichi to drop the matter and move on.
Ha, he thinks to himself. Good fucking luck.
Aloud, he asks, “Miyuki, truth or dare?”
Eyes snap back to him, cold and calculating. “Dare,” Miyuki responds without surprise. It’s a challenge; they both know it. Youichi’s certain, though, that he maintains the upper hand.
(Or, that’s the lie he tells himself when he starts to think too long about the implications of what he’s going to do.)
He hides behind a sneer, reminds himself that this is payback for earlier: an admission for an admission.
A confirmation.
Youichi continues to watch Miyuki with sharp attention, noticing that the other boy’s eyes have once again shifted to a point past him. To Sawamura. It’s the final nail in the coffin that Youichi needs in order to bury something before it ever has the chance to begin.
“I dare you to go kiss the person in the room that you like,” he says.
The thing about Kuramochi Youichi is that he’s never been good at math; but all the barely passing exam grades and late nights spent swearing at the unit circle pale in comparison to now. To this moment. Because all it takes is Miyuki Kazuya grabbing him by the shirt and pulling him close to learn just how off his calculations can be.
Fuck.
All that happens is a brief brushing of the lips. The clock on his desk records a single second passing—not even enough time for Youichi to close his eyes, to process what the fuck is happening. Then it’s over. He’s still not sure the moment was real until he feels Miyuki let go of the grip on his shirt, face flushed and glasses foggy when he takes a step back. All that remains is the ghost of his touch.
“Happy?” Miyuki asks, perhaps more breathless than he should be.
Youichi doesn’t respond. Anything he wants to say dies in his throat, swallowed down alongside the knowledge that his plan to get over whatever inconvenient feelings he has toward Miyuki has just completely, totally backfired. There’s a ringing in his ears; his hands fist at his sides, crescent moons reforming as he sinks his nails in.
He doesn’t speak. Instead, he does what he believes any rational person in his situation would do: he storms out of the room. It’s the second time in less than five minutes that Youichi’s reminded just how bad at math he can be.
There’s a chill in the air that whirls around him. A slushy mixture of snow and rain peppers his arms and the tops of his toes—both of which have been left exposed by the slides on his feet and the short-sleeve shirt on his body. It’s cold— unbearably so—but Youichi grits his teeth and keeps walking with no destination in mind.
He’s made his bed; this is him lying in it.
He gets as far as the hill overlooking the practice fields before he’s stopped by a loud “Kuramochi” calling out to him from several paces behind. It’s Miyuki’s voice. Youichi doesn’t turn, but he doesn’t keep walking either. His body falls into limbo, caught between what he wants and what he tells himself he doesn’t need.
Miyuki’s quick to catch up.
“You gonna tell me what the fuck that was?” Youichi asks, back still to Miyuki. He refuses to turn around, refuses to give the other boy the satisfaction of seeing his cheeks flushed from more than just the winter air whipping around them. The streetlamp glowing dimly above feels like a spotlight, as if he’s the centerpiece of a circus act begging to be gawked at.
Might as well be, he thinks.
The ringing in his ears has yet to subside; hands, now hiding in the pockets of his sweatpants, remain fisted, crescent moons sinking deeper into shaky palms. The world is off-kilter, and only grows more dangerously so when Miyuki says: “It seemed obvious to me. You dared me to kiss the person in the room that I liked.”
“Yeah,” Youichi tries to keep his voice even. “But you kissed me.”
“I know.”
Oh.
Oh.
Youichi gives in, nearly losing his footing on the slushy path beneath him when he finally turns around. There’s a plethora of things he could say waiting on his tongue, but when he sees the look on Miyuki’s face, he finds himself unable to utter anything more eloquent than: “What the fuck, Miyuki?”
“I’m not repeating myself.”
They stand there a moment, absorbed by the stillness of the winter night. Youichi’s body has gone numb—likely due to the cold, but not completely unrelated to the confession he can’t bring himself to give. Miyuki has resigned himself to silence, too. Teeth chatter; shoulders shiver.
They’re each too stubborn to relent, to end the cold war that currently wages between them—both literally and figuratively, as if hypothermia is preferable to admitting their feelings. Youichi thinks it almost is. Almost.
The bit of rain-snow sludge that rolls down his neck and slips underneath the back of his shirt gives him just enough sense to say, “Sorry, I’m just…you like me? Like…romantically?” It sounds like an accusation.
“It’s not like I want to,” Miyuki quickly shoots back.
“Fuck.”
“What?”
He doesn’t know why he says it, or maybe he does; but there’s no going back when Youichi looks at Miyuki and tells him: “Because I like you too, moron.”
It’s Miyuki’s turn to stand there, slack-jawed and awkward. The rain-snow mixture has picked up, coming down heavier than when they first left the dorm. The water droplets that stick to Miyuki’s glasses prevent Youichi from fully seeing the look in his eyes. He doesn’t have to, though; the rest of the catcher’s body language tells him everything he needs to know. He’s embarrassed.
Good, Youichi thinks while he waits for a response. If they’re going down, they might as well go down together.
Eventually, Miyuki asks, “You like me… romantically?” There’s a bit of laughter that catches onto the end of his question that makes Youichi want to punch him.
“I’m not repeating myself,” he opts for instead.
Another pause passes between them when Miyuki takes a step closer. His embarrassment seems to have subsided, replaced by something indiscernible—something that makes Youichi apprehensive. He looks oddly calm. “If you like me,” he starts, “then why’d you make me come chasing after you like we’re in one of Sawamura’s shoujos?”
“Jesus, Miyuki,” Youichi sighs, exasperated. He throws his hands up in frustration, a loud thud sounding when they fall to his sides. He’s too worked up to slip them back into the pockets of his sweatpants; the numbness in his fingertips is the least of his problems—momentarily. “Because I didn’t think you would kiss me.”
“Who else would I have kissed?”
“Sawamura?”
The sound of Miyuki’s laughter causes Youichi’s body to still. “Sawamura?” he parrots once he’s calmed himself enough to speak. “You thought…when have I ever expressed any interest in Sawamura?”
“I don’t know?” Youichi spits back. “Maybe it’s because you always stay late to catch for him, or—”
“I’m a catcher. It’s my job to help the pitching staff improve. I catch for Furuya, too. And Nori when he asks.” Miyuki says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world—which, in reality, it kind of is. He’s always going on about the partnership between the pitcher and the catcher, about the foundation their battery sets for the rest of the team. Apparently the irrational part of Youichi’s brain took that to mean a partnership off the field as much as it’s one on it.
(Somewhere, off in the distance, he thinks he can hear his math teacher swearing at yet another one of his miscalculations.)
“Besides,” Miyuki continues, “if you like me, but you thought I liked Sawamura, then why’d you give me the dare?” It’s such a logical question that it only serves to piss Youichi off further.
“Because I don’t want to like you, obviously! Or maybe I do. It doesn’t matter. It happened. Now it’s done.”
Another laugh from Miyuki. “But…”
“But what?”
“But you like me,” Miyuki says as he takes a second step toward him. They’re close enough that his breath tickles Youichi’s cheeks on the exhale, causing a new kind of chill to pass over him. “And I like you.”
“Guess how that’s how things work now.”
The moment is a far cry from romantic, but Youichi thinks it’s oddly fitting for two people with the emotional charisma of chewed up gum stuck to the underside of a school desk. The rain-snow mixture numbing their bodies, the back and forth bickering—it’s not worthy of one of Sawamura’s mangas, but it doesn’t need to be.
It’s them, imperfect as they are.
Their chance at a fairytale moment comes seconds later, when—in lieu of saying anything else—Miyuki brings his hands up to cup Youichi’s face and kisses him a second time. The fingers that rest on his cheeks are cold to the touch; the lips pressed against his own take time to provide warmth. But Youichi’s stopped thinking about the feeling his body no longer has. All that matters is Miyuki, who parts his lips, inviting Youichi in.
The kiss isn’t fireworks or electricity or any other cliché he’s heard someone describe a moment like this to be. It’s awkward and messy and loud. In the quiet of the night, Youichi becomes all too aware of the sound his lips make against Miyuki’s. It ruins the allure of what they’re doing the tiniest bit.
Still, he lets it go on, continues to kiss and be kissed until his lips swell and his breathing comes heavy. When he finally pulls away, Youichi has to stop himself from reaching out to wipe a bit of saliva off of Miyuki’s lips, or to fix the glasses that have gone askew. These gestures feel a little too intimate—even more so than having his tongue down the other boy’s throat, which he’d done only seconds before.
Instead, he takes a step back, forcing Miyuki to drop his hands from his cheeks when he does. They fall against his thighs with a thud; Youichi’s own lay useless at his sides, a slight tremor in his fingertips. He expects an uneasy silence to resettle between them, but Miyuki’s quick to tell him: “We should go back. I don’t want Sawamura to send a search party.”
It’s the mention of Sawamura’s name that causes Youichi to take a second step back, the memory of how he’d dramatically fled from the room returning to him. How they hadn’t been alone the first time Miyuki kissed him.
Fuck.
He’s not worried about Haruichi, knowing the younger Kominato wouldn’t say anything without asking Youichi about it first; but his loud-mouthed roommate, though always acting with the best intentions, raises some concerns. “Did he—” Youichi starts to ask, then stops, deciding to rephrase the question. “Do you think Sawamura saw anything?”
Miyuki shakes his head. “No. After you stormed off, he tried to ask where we were going. I told him the bathroom. He seemed to buy that.”
“Good. Let him think I’m taking the world’s longest shit.”
This draws a smile out of Miyuki. It’s genuine, the way his lips curve upward—reminiscent of the one he wore earlier, just before Youichi told him his value as a member of the team. He’s not conniving or calculating here, shivering alongside Youichi as rain-snow sludge catches in his hair. This is Miyuki Kazuya with his guard lowered for only Youichi to see. There’s a level of trust that exists in his unspoken gesture; and Youichi knows that his own appearance—hair sticking to his forehead and cheeks tinged pink—mirrors this.
Like two heart-shaped boxes that have finally found their keys.
(Even if they appeared in places neither ever allowed themselves to look.)
“Anyways,” Youichi adds, trying to shake off how disgustingly flustered he feels in Miyuki’s presence. “I’m still gonna kick your ass for that dare you gave me.”
Then, before Miyuki can respond with some clever quip, Youichi starts walking back in the direction of the dorms. He’s officially had enough of the weather, and from the way Miyuki turns to match his stride with nothing more than a bit of snickering, it’s evident he has, too.
The pace they set is quick, more of a light jog than a leisurely stroll. They pay little attention to the slick ground underneath their feet, choosing to play with fire by giving one another a playful nudge here or there instead. Youichi instigates; Miyuki’s eager to reciprocate. In this moment, as their laughter fills the quiet, Youichi can’t help but think how normal everything feels. How, through two kisses and a confession, it’s as though nothing has changed between them—even when he knows that’s not the case.
It’s a fact he’s quickly reminded of when Miyuki stops walking, just under the awning by the dorm’s cafeteria, and asks: “You really think something’s missing without me?”
Youichi stops walking, too.
There’s a sarcastic edge to Miyuki’s tone that doesn’t go undetected by Youichi, but he’s too cold to take the bait. He also knows Miyuki well enough to realize that his baiting words are a cover, a way to hide the fact that he wants to know the impact he’s had on Youichi’s life without having to directly say those words aloud.
“I said I did, didn’t I?”
“Were you talking about the team, or—”
“Jesus,” Youichi groans, turning to look at him. “My tongue was just down your fucking throat, dude.”
Miyuki doesn’t wholly meet his gaze, eyes fixed on a point just beyond Youichi’s head. He looks calm, though—his voice full of practiced composure when he asks, “So, what do you want to do?”
“About what?”
“About this.”
Youichi shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess when people like each other, they go on dates or something.” He’s not well-versed in romance, had never even kissed someone before tonight; but this—going on a date—seems like an okay place to start.
He tells himself not to regret it when Miyuki follows up with, “Are you asking me on a date?” There’s a knowing smirk that begins to toy at his lips again, the kind of look that Youichi has spent months wanting to punch off his face. Now, though, he can’t help but think how kissable Miyuki looks like this.
(Or maybe Miyuki’s always been kissable like this; Youichi just hadn’t given himself the chance to see it. To admit it to himself.)
“Fuck off,” he settles for in leiu of a punch or a kiss. Then he pauses long enough to gather himself before mumbling, “I can be if you want me to.”
“Okay,” is all Miyuki says in response.
“Okay?”
“We can go on a date.”
Oh.
Youichi tries to bite back the smile pulling at his lips when he stumbles out a breathy, “Cool.” He feels like the lamest person on the planet getting butterflies at the thought of going on a date with Miyuki Kazuya. Youichi doesn’t get butterflies, especially not over people like Miyuki.
Then again, if the night’s taught him anything, it’s that he doesn’t know himself as well as he once thought. The way his smile only grows when he hears Miyuki say “Cool” in an equally breathy voice is confirmation enough.
He likes Miyuki.
Unquestionably and irrevocably likes him. Romantically.
Fuck.
“So,” Miyuki starts a moment later. “What should we—”
“I’m going to bed.”
The temperature hasn’t improved, and all being under the awning has done is protect them from getting doused with more sludge. Youichi still shivers against the breeze; he watches Miyuki’s teeth chatter. The blanket curled up at the foot of his unmade bed calls out to him, begging him to go inside.
“Okay.”
“See you tomorrow, I guess,” Youichi says, unsure how to end the conversation. He doesn’t know what they are, what he’s meant to do when parting ways with his not-necessarily-boyfriend-but-definitely-more-than-friend. Does he kiss him? Does he tell Miyuki he’s probably going to dream about him tonight? The former seems acceptable; the latter forces him to confront an uncharted territory he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be ready to cross into.
So, instead of doing either, he chooses a third option: turning around and walking back toward Room 5 without saying or doing anything else.
He manages to go less than five steps in the direction of his room before he feels cold fingers wrapping around his wrist, forcing him back around. Miyuki doesn’t say anything, and any protest Youichi’s prepared to give is silenced by a quick, frigid-lipped kiss placed on the corner of his mouth. It’s a kiss that feels more like a mistake than a proper goodbye—like Miyuki meant to kiss him squarely on the lips, but missed in that awkward way of his.
Youichi hates how endearing the entire situation is. He’s flustered and embarrassed and more enamored with the boy now hovering just past the cafeteria door with him than he ever thought possible.
When they both take a step back and Miyuki lets go of his wrist, all Youichi can choke out is a pathetic, “I hate you.”
“I hate you, too,” Miyuki echoes, smirking.
It’s perhaps the most fitting end to the night they’ve just shared. But there's also a promise there, hidden in all the things they don't say, letting Youichi know that no matter what comes next, they'll navigate it together. As friends—and hopefully, one day, as something more.
💋💋💋
They’re both a little worse for wear when they walk to the train station the following morning. Youichi has to turn his head to inconspicuously wipe away the snot that begins to slip from his nose with his coat sleeve; Miyuki stifles a cough into his elbow.
He didn’t think it was actually possible to get a cold from spending too much time in below-freezing temperatures, but then again, the previous twelve hours have challenged everything Youichi thought he once knew. The boy walking at his side, occasionally brushing knuckles with him, is proof of that.
It’s weird.
(Youichi likes it.)
They’ve yet to have a real conversation about their relationship, only going so far as to swear off mentioning anything that happened to the rest of the team. There’s an unspoken trust weighing on them both—one that lets Youichi know that they’ll take things slow, feel things out. The answers don’t have to come all at once. There doesn’t need to be flowers and music and a horse-drawn carriage.
For now, Youichi’s content to let his pinkie brush against Miyuki’s as he walks him to his platform. He’s content to send him off with nothing more than a wave and a promise of “See you when we get back,” before taking off in the other direction to wait for his own train back to Chiba.
There's the ghost of a smile pulling at his lips that doesn't leave him the entire journey home.
When Youichi gets off at Chiba Station a little under two hours later, he checks his phone to see a message waiting for him, the familiar contact name for Miyuki Kazuya pinging in his inbox. He bites his lip as he reads it over and tries not to laugh at the turn his life has taken. He’s grateful for the winter air that tinges his cheeks pink; he wouldn’t know how to explain the added blush otherwise.
I’m going to kill him, Youichi thinks, scanning the message a second time.
Miyuki Kazuya [11:34 a.m.]: Have a good break :)
The :) mocks him. It makes him want to get back on the train and get off at Miyuki’s stop, to show up at his doorstep like the protagonist in the type of coming of age movie neither can stomach. Instead, he settles for typing back a delayed: U 2.
Then waits even longer to follow up with: <3
They’re a far cry from romantic, and perhaps even further from knowing what they want to be; but in that moment, as he slips his phone into his pocket and begins down the path leading to his family’s apartment complex, Youichi realizes that there are worse things he could do than ruin his friendship with Miyuki Kazuya.