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Miyuki stifles a groan, shifting his weight to the side in the catcher's box. There were many ways he saw this game play out, many disappointing ones too, but getting tackled isn't something he had prepared himself for. It's almost more annoying than painful—almost. But they still haven't won, Miyuki still has a job to do, so he gets into position.
He wants to get into position, but it's beyond his control then—how his side protests in pain and his ribs are suddenly screaming at him, muscles screaming at him, everyone in the stadium just screaming, all around him, nothing but noise, all crushing down, down on his body so he can't breathe.
He loses focus for a moment, mound blurry, swaying in the distance before him, and now wouldn't that make headlines, if they had to drag my body off the field.
He gets up abruptly, vision going black for a second, and the pain is worse than hoped, but the sharp intake of breath helps with not suffocating, at least.
Alright, so he'll improvise, he can do it—has to do it because he's already up now, slightly losing balance, or just turning to the umpire, it might not be clear from a distance. He doesn't have to make a decision; there's really only one thing to do. The umpire gives the time-out signal that Miyuki didn't wait for, already making his way over to the mound—slowly—posture proud and meaningful.
It has to be Furuya now, it can't be anyone else or they'll drag him out by force; Miyuki knows what Kuramochi can do. So, the mound. He could talk about their strategy so far, or a change of plans, or ask if Furuya's doing alright—but of course Furuya's doing alright, even when he's not, in fact, alright. Even when Sawamura was ready to relieve him, and everyone's still wondering whether it was right for him not to. Furuya's never been more determined and there's nothing to say as Miyuki comes to a stop right in front of him, avoiding eye contact.
Miyuki shuffles in close, mitt obscuring their mouths, shoulders bumping like one's leaning on the other, ready to share a secret—tries to hide as much of himself as he can with just Furuya's frame. He throws a long glance around them, over the field, but skips the dugout. He's concentrating on how to win, that's what this is, of course—with his right arm crossed over his chest, casually striking a pose.
But his breathing is a bit shallow, gaze unfocused. He's stalling, alright, but as long as he doesn't say anything, Furuya will probably wait for him, so—
“Miyuki-senpai, does it hur—”
“Don't—say anything.”
Miyuki makes himself look up at this, makes himself look confident and determined, which he is, he really is, and maybe also a bit forceful. Maybe desperate. Furuya catches it, as he always does, it's endearing; his eyes widen and his brows furrow and his lips draw a straight thin line like this is hard on him. It probably is, but Miyuki can admit to being selfish.
Furuya's nails dig into his skin as he balls his free hand to a fist and it stings, a bit, and he thinks of his foot; none of that is exactly as uncomfortable as the lump in his throat, which doesn't make sense—he isn't one for words, usually, but right now, he needs to say something or... or he'll choke, or combust, or the world will end, or he will regret this forever.
He swallows, hard, but it doesn't help.
“Maybe we should play it safe and—”
“We go all out.”
Miyuki's voice is unusual there, full of so many emotions that it's the first thing Furuya notices before the meaning sinks in. His brows furrow more and he tries again, because what else is there to do, but try again.
“But aren't you... Senpai, it's—” he tries, but Miyuki cuts him off again, voice heavy but intention clear in it because Furuya knows this, understands this, and it's hard.
“IT'S BECAUSE—” Miyuki didn't mean to be aggressive, not like this, but his ribcage is trying to squeeze out all his insecurities and fears and secrets, right there, through his teeth, and how do you stop this, “—I'm your senpai, that you have to trust me now.”
Miyuki feels embarrassment creeping up his neck, staring at Furuya intently all this time, acting all meaningful; but there's still something—pain, maybe—clogging his throat, so this once, he wants Furuya—needs Furuya—to read him.
He flicks his gaze down to Furuya's foot before he loses focus again, allows himself to close his eyes in contemplation, maybe. His breath only hitches a bit, but it's fine. He's not the first or only one, they're all struggling, so it's fine. There's no time to question it now.
“Take them out. No mercy. We'll show them what we've got, because—” Miyuki doesn't say it, if he doesn't admit it it might not be true, but, you know what I mean, you have to know what I mean, “I will take you to koshien. Rely on me.”
It's hard, to observe Furuya's expression fall with every word, tension leaving his features until he lets himself look open and vulnerable and in pain; like Miyuki got so close that his ribs aren't just piercing his own body but Furuya's, too.
An emotion tugs at Miyuki's lips but he ignores it.
And Furuya's still trying. He swallows down what the words mean to him, that he's waited for this for years and it's right there—yet it doesn't feel right to comply. It's not koshien he wants, and not a sacrifice he envisions. Pulling Miyuki out, even losing now should be fine if— as long as Miyuki just recovers. It should be fine, to just be able to play another time.
Furuya shifts his weight from one foot to the other, moves them around out of nervousness.
It should be, but it really isn't. It's not enough either way, burning low or burning up—not for him and not for Miyuki—so who's left to be the selfless one?
Miyuki is looking at him expectantly so Furuya nods, expression closing off and growing sharp, and his eyes flash with that hungry look that sends shivers down Miyuki's spine.
He tried. Still, he needs to say it.
“Then, Miyuki-senpai... Trust me.”
(To say that Furuya catches him off guard sometimes would be an understatement, Miyuki realized a while ago. Furuya doesn't catch him off guard so much as he throws fastballs at 150 km/h—what difference does being on or off guard even make—and it's Miyuki's own fault for teaching Furuya how to always hit his mark.)
Miyuki will later decide he doesn't remember his first thought, or his second; he just blinks at Furuya a few times, mouth agape ready to say something back. He skims a few of his thoughts about Furuya's condition or inexperience or boldness, but nothing feels right, here. He's not himself, can't be himself when that incessant throbbing in his chest suddenly spreads in him like growing roots, claws its way up his throat and past his lips and he's too late to try and keep it down.
He expects to break into a laugh but there's no sound, just the corners of his mouth slowly curling upwards by themselves, face lighting up against his will, genuine and relieved and so not himself.
Furuya catches the meaning behind this, too; it's nowhere near the smirk Miyuki wears every day, that worn-in favorite accessory. This smile is wide and heartfelt, baring teeth but for once no bite. It's rare in how young it makes him look, how it brings out forming laughter lines and pushes up his lower eyelids, spreads color and warmth from his lips to his cheeks and into his eyes. Furuya always gets lost in those eyes, but even more so right now; they remind him of honey, or gold, or the whole sky tinted with a sunset's warmth in the evening, all around him, embracing him when he looks up then, every time.
So Furuya might be staring now, but it makes sense. It's a little unfair, that someone gets to hide a smile like that.
And Miyuki hides it when he catches up to himself; he takes a step back and turns his head, coughs that sudden emotion into his mitt—for it to be crushed there, isn't that fitting, by Furuya's pitch—then winces. It's almost the usual smirk Miyuki looks back up with, through his lashes, free of tension but crooked from pain. Furuya almost frowns again.
“Riiight, well then—” Miyuki widens his grin, brings his hand up in an apologetic gesture, head bowed and cheeks flushed, maybe, just slightly, “I'll be in your care.”
Isn't that unfair, too: how Miyuki causes flutter in Furuya's stomach so easily, even when it's inappropriate and selfish. Selfish like burdening another with one's pain, or pushing on despite it. Maybe Furuya shouldn't want to pitch like this, or berate himself for caving in—but there's no right choice to make and he can only look ahead.
Miyuki's walk back to home plate looks slow, maybe, but fine. He stops at one point, briefly, cocking his head like he wants to say something else, but doesn't. Furuya's eyes don't leave his back until he's crouching again, familiar there.
His side is not quite screaming anymore, so maybe he can hold on. He wants to hold on, and he wants it to be enough, because Furuya will finish this as quickly as possible. Because Furuya will finish this—for him. Miyuki finds it easier to breathe, just a bit.
If Furuya looked determined before then he's ablaze now, there's shrieking from the dugout, THE MOUND IS BURNING DOWN, and that has to be good enough, he has to hold on.
So they hold on.