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saso2016_r12016-06-26 12:02 pm
tripsh) wrote in saso2016_r12016-06-26 12:02 pm
Entry tags:
Main Round 1: Team Kuramochi Youichi/Miyuki Kazuya
TITLE: then and now
SERIES: Daiya no A
SHIP: Kuramochi Youichi/Miyuki Kazuya
RATING: T
CHARACTERS: Kuramochi Youichi, Miyuki Kazuya
SIDE PAIRINGS: None
MAJOR TAGS: None
ADDITIONAL TAGS: confessions, pining, time skip/post-canon, nonlinear narrative
SUMMARY: He’s falling back into how he was before, how they were before, but whether or not they ever stopped is another question Miyuki’s not answering.
WORK COUNT: 3932 words, 5 images
SCRIPT: N/A
NOTES: None
The day goes like this.
There are people everywhere; parents and classmates and kouhai milling around, offering congratulations and words of wisdom. Kuramochi lost track of Miyuki for a while, separated by the ebb and flow of bodies and well-wishes.
(That he and Miyuki gravitated towards each other following the ceremony isn’t a surprise, given the course of the past few months, where they were drawn to each other more and more like moths to a lantern.)
Kuramochi’s mother is somewhere, with his grandfather, probably looking for him.
But right now his focus is here—on what he just said, a stream of thought and emotion that culminated in three small-yet-monumental words:
“—I like you.”
Miyuki blinks, expression blank but for a faint trace of surprise present in the upward tilt of his brows.
Admittedly, Kuramochi himself doesn’t quite believe what came out of his mouth.
Not that it hasn’t been on his mind for months—there was just always a question of timing, ensuring he didn’t undo everything they had with just a few words because he couldn’t keep his feelings—rough and undefined, a handful if there ever was one—to himself.
But graduation turned the question of timing into a question of whether or not he’ll have time at all, after this.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, there’s a moment of peace. Crystallized, compact—almost as if Kuramochi could reach out and cup it in his palms.
Finally:
“A graduation confession, Kuramochi?” Miyuki asks. He says it as though it’s something cute, or something quaint, and with each word Kuramochi can feel that crystalline peace begin to splinter and crack, something he feels from his fingertips and up his arms, splitting his chest into pieces.
He knows, immediately, where this is going.
Miyuki looks up for a moment, through the branches of the sakura tree they found themselves under.
“I can’t say I feel the same.”
Not: you’re delusional.
Not: you must be joking.
Not even: I don’t feel the same.
Just: I can’t.
If he’s trying to convince Kuramochi he doesn’t feel the same way, then well—
He’s not buying it.
Kuramochi clenches his fists. “That’s it, then?”
Miyuki looks back at him, a carefully constructed smile masking anything that might be on his mind. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
Kuramochi thinks back to the day their retirement from the team became official—when he stood on the field with Miyuki and thought to himself maybe this was something he had a shot at.
He thinks back across the months that followed, stretching from then all the way to now. months spent watching, wondering, letting himself hope. Letting himself believe that this was going to go in a direction that didn’t end in disaster.
Kuramochi knows, looking at Miyuki’s face, that Miyuki is obfuscating. Hiding behind a mask (and maybe that stings most, honestly, because Kuramochi thought they were past that, thought he broke through some time ago), trying to slip out of giving Kuramochi an honest answer just so he can escape this without engaging at all.
He’s afraid.
Kuramochi knows the feeling, because it lurked at the back of his mouth for months, and just when he let himself believe he overcame it—just long enough to get the words out, to take that step—it threatens now to rush up like bile.
He thought the risk was worth it.
Clearly Miyuki doesn't agree.
Kuramochi swallows. “Okay.”
Miyuki waits, as if expecting Kuramochi to say something else.
(He wants to do more than that, wants to grab Miyuki by the lapels and demand an explanation, demand the truth—but if Miyuki decided he isn’t worth it there’s little point in that.)
Finally, Miyuki nods and starts to turn away. “I’ll see you.”
Kuramochi clenches his fists. “See you.”
Kuramochi watches Miyuki leave through a wisp of loose sakura petals.
...
Until his last breath, Kuramochi will never consider his words at graduation a mistake—not in retrospect, not in hindsight, not even so much because of what happens after but because of what happens before.
Months ago, after retirement, after he looks at Miyuki standing on that field with their time on the team behind them and the rest of their lives in front of them, he decides that he wants more than what they’re used to.
His relationship with Miyuki, it can be said, exists as one built on habit. Playing together, eating together, studying together—living together, in every sense of the word—meant that there’s practically an entire lifetime’s worth of traditions.
Finding motivation to break a habit is easier said than done.
It happens, then, like this.
It happens in the touches that, before, would have been over and done with within moments but now stretch for two seconds longer than they need to.
During the post-retirement, intra-squad game, Miyuki grasps his wrist after a home run. Objectively, it shouldn’t feel any different than any other time they’ve done this, but it does. Kuramochi, chest still heaving from running to home plate from second, can feel each of Miyuki’s fingers pressing into his skin with perfect clarity, feels how they squeeze in tandem with his eyes, which crinkle at the corners with the strength of his smile directed right at Kuramochi.
Miyuki pulls away after what feels like an age, accepting other congratulations from Zono, from Shirasu and Nabe. He’s glowing, soaking in the last taste of competition they’ll have here at Seido, and it takes active effort not to stare.
Kuramochi swears he can feel Miyuki’s grip for the rest of the game.
It happens in the moments they share in class, where Miyuki is layers on layers on layers.
Before, it was as though Miyuki never wanted his classmates to see him as he was, and he hid behind the cover of baseball, absorbed in scorebooks and messing with Kuramochi. Now, with retirement behind them, things shift while somehow staying exactly the same. They’re still the two kids at the edge of the classroom that only talk to each other, and Miyuki, predictably, doesn’t stop talking about baseball (Kuramochi would have been concerned if he had).
What changes is what comes in between. Moments where Kuramochi can hear doubt creep into Miyuki’s voice, where he can feel Miyuki casting around for an answer, for a right way forward now that the thing they’ve spent the past three years of their life focusing on is coming to a close.
Miyuki lets him in.
It happens late one night, sitting in the dugout after they watched practice, sitting within mere breaths of each other. Ostensibly, it’s to ward off the early spring chill. Their thighs brush, and Kuramochi finds his eyes drawn to where Miyuki’s hand rests on his own knee.
After a long stretch of comfortable silence (something they’ve learned, something that’s become part of their routine), Kuramochi looks at Miyuki from his periphery. “They’re gonna be fine.”
Miyuki smiles. “I know.”
In a field of uncertainty, it’s good to find at least one thing they can both count on, something sure.
Kuramochi wants to say that they’re going to be fine too, even if it doesn’t seem like it now, even if everything is one giant question mark, like they’re hovering at the edge of a precipice, where the bottom is the destination but there’s no way to get down except to jump.
He thinks Miyuki might just be willing to let him take his hand, right then, in order to say what he can’t seem to put into words. But he holds back—now isn’t the right moment.
It’ll come, he tells himself.
…
It’s not like Kuramochi hasn’t thought about it before.
He has. For a while, actually.
(Sometimes, when he leans too close at dinner and his shoulder bumps Miyuki’s.
Sometimes, when they’re doubled over in laughter at someone else’s expense.
Sometimes, when he watches Miyuki, when he thinks about how he’s grown—how they’ve grown—during their time at Seido.
Sometimes, in easy moments where they’re drifting closer and closer, separate space verging into shared space, he thinks he wants more of that with Miyuki. More of this.)
But he can’t have that. They can’t have that.
At least… not when they’ve got one summer left, one more chance. Not when Koshien is something obtainable if they reach high enough for it. The last thing he wants is a botched confession to mess up their chances, a few misread interactions to sever a team dynamic they’ve worked so hard to build.
Baseball’s always come first. For Miyuki. For Kuramochi.
And for now, he’s able to push aside those thoughts even though they’re often betrayed by his actions. For now, he’s able to settle for getting an out at second off the ball Miyuki sends flying his way, sliding into home and scoring a run off a hit from Miyuki, getting closer to victory—inch by inch—until they take the whole thing.
(nice run / nice hit / we won
hands brushing / wide smiles, laughter / Kuramochi’s fingers clasped tight around Miyuki’s forearm.)
For now, this is enough.
.
“It really is our last time here, huh?”
They stand on Seido’s baseball field, setting sun on their backs. The only difference between now and their start here three years ago: these jerseys belong to retired players rather than current ones, victors rather than beginners.
(Another difference: In first year, Kuramochi couldn’t imagine standing this close to Miyuki—shoulder to shoulder as teammates, as friends. Back then, he had thought he’d wanted to stay as far away as possible. But now…)
now:
“You’re probably glad to escape being captain,” Kuramochi jokes, laugh fond as he nudges Miyuki’s shoulder, casual.
“Maybe I’ll miss it.” Miyuki doesn’t turn to Kuramochi just yet, like he wants to look at the field a little longer. His profile’s illuminated by the setting sun when Kuramochi looks at him, bright orange glow behind him. It looks good. He looks good.
(He thinks of Miyuki’s fingers curled tight around his wrist, the shout of people around them, the tears they’d shed and smiles they’d shared. He thinks of his arm slung around Miyuki’s shoulders, the laughter loud and clear and theirs in this moment of victory they’d fought for until it was their own.)
It’s too bright, too warm. Kuramochi looks away, but he can feel Miyuki’s eyes on him now.
(He thinks of the feeling for Miyuki that’s carved a place in his heart now. The one that’s slipped through the netting Kuramochi’s always had protecting it, even though he’d tried to ignore or dismiss or push it away for a while now. It’s nothing. You don’t need this. You don’t want this.)
But, the thing is… the thing is that he thinks he does. He does want it. He has for who knows how long, even though he’s done absolutely nothing to act on it.
(He thinks of the words he hasn’t said, the actions he hasn’t taken. He thinks of the easy, natural shift in his feelings for Miyuki—annoyance to camaraderie to friendship, fondness and affection. He thinks that he wants whatever this is to be a definite rather than a could be, wants it to be something that stretches beyond baseball at Seido now that even that’s over.)
He knows he cares about Miyuki. He knows that he’d miss Miyuki if this is where they ended things—clean cut, clean break.
And Kuramochi thinks that if he lets his cynical mind rule his considerably more hopeful heart, he might regret it.
He knows he’d regret it.
“Yeah.”
...
Miyuki relishes in the small amount of time he has waiting for his morning train. He keeps a pretty busy schedule these days (one he both loves and hates) and rarely has a free moment to just stop and be. It’s not exactly ideal when he tries to keep up with the pro baseball circuit on television during the season, when all he wants is a minute to lounge and actually eat his food, rather than inhale it.
Speaking of food—he unwraps the sandwich he’d picked up at Lawson's on his way to the station and takes a bite, watching as a train across the platform pulls in, passengers unloading. He feels the coils of dread wrapping around his insides as he realizes he still has ten whole minutes until his own train arrives, and he remembers why he keeps himself so busy.
It leaves him very little time to think.
It isn’t so much the actual thinking that bothers him as it is getting stuck in thoughts that leave him feeling helpless and disgusting. Disgust because of that day, because of the feelings he tries so hard to bury won’t stay buried. Helpless because he is too much of a coward to do anything about it (cowardice leads to disgust which leads to cowardice—a never-ending loop).
It’s been too long now; it’s too late. He’s too late. Too late in realizing what he threw away. Too late to do anything about it.
Seven minutes left until his train, and he’s stepped on a landmine (how long had they been there?) Whenever he least expected it (even when he did), there they were. Directly in his path and all labeled the same thing:
Kuramochi Youichi.
Boom! The landmine detonates and all the unwanted (or wanted) emotions swirl around, enveloping him, making it difficult to breathe, to think, to rip his mind away from him.
He checks his watch—four minutes left. Four minutes spent reliving that day. Reliving the days, months, years after. He remembers how acutely aware of his mistake he became.
Mistake. It took him too long to admit that much. Once he had, it's all that seemed to consume his mind, his being. Mistake. Regret. Sorrow. Anger.
Coward.
And just like that, everything (almost everything) melts away as he looks up and sees the one person that makes him the most excited, most terrified.
Somehow, Kuramochi Youichi is there, in the same train station, walking straight towards him. Miyuki turns away, certain he hasn’t been spotted yet.
Coward.
Two minutes until his train rescues him. Even less before Kuramochi walks by.
Coward.
Kuramochi may not see him, but Miyuki sees Kuramochi. Feels that lurch in his chest, a feeling long forgotten. How long has it been? He'd stopped counting (another landmine goes off).
He should say something. This is his chance (one he lost years ago) They drifted apart and Miyuki convinced himself it was on good terms. But years of bitterness, left unaddressed, had no doubt taken Kuramochi from him (he'd practically pushed him away himself).
No. It’s better to think Kuramochi doesn’t hate him. He can’t bear to imagine any ounce of hatred in those eyes—hatred reserved for him (as well-deserved as it might be).
One minute left and he can feel time slow even more as Kuramochi walks closer, closer and finally past. His chest aches with a fresh layer of regret. But with it comes a sense of relief; he avoided the one thing he doesn’t think he can ever face head on.
30 seconds and he feels the air around him get sucked away as an all-too-familiar voice fills his ears.
“Miyuki?”
…
From three years to three weeks. Miyuki managed not to hear anything from Kuramochi for three years, a radio silence he allowed to happen as much as time and space helped to widen, life itself a constant pull away from everything Miyuki himself couldn’t consistently put enough distance from. But it’s not like he never heard anything about him; the convenient part about avoiding Kuramochi is not having to admit he’s kept up with Kuramochi’s career with a meticulousness rivalling his high school scorebook review sessions.
I know you don’t think you’re doing enough, Kuramochi said back then, three in the morning and Miyuki’s hands the steadiest thing about him, but you are. You always have. And maybe he was right, but Miyuki doesn’t think he was wrong, either: three years of radio silence falling away into three weeks since Miyuki saw Kuramochi again at the station. Since Miyuki saw Kuramochi first but Kuramochi still spoke up before Miyuki could (like Miyuki would have anyway).
And now, now Miyuki’s looking across a table at Kuramochi and Kuramochi’s laugh, deeper than he remembers but triggering just as fast and fierce a headrush.
“I’d say I’m surprised, but. I’m really not,” Kuramochi says, and Miyuki blinks, plays it off with a yawn he barely feels over trembling hands tucked out of sight under the table. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
Miyuki ignores it, drawling out instead, “Well, I guess miracles happen after all. Like your semi-decent batting average this season—”
Ah. Not quite out of sight either, then.
If Kuramochi’s surprised it doesn’t show. But then again, it never did, so Miyuki doesn’t think this is anything to feel relieved about. He’s relieved anyway.
“Of course you’re still keeping up with the scores,” Kuramochi huffs. He sounds rougher than Miyuki’s re-acquainted with, so maybe he’s not the only one looking for the familiarity of baseball to fall into, relatively safe from conversational hazards neatly compartmentalised under either What’ve You Been Doing All Along and it’s not mutually exclusive neighbour, Why Bother Telling Me Now?
Miyuki shrugs. “Thought it was only fair you get to redeem your sorry stats. Even if it is three years late.”
“Yeah?” Kuramochi says, and even now Miyuki hears what he’s not saying: So? Is that it?
Like that, it’s easier and harder for Miyuki to quip back with, “fishing for compliments, Kuramochi?” the way he always did, Kuramochi kicking at his shin under the table the way he always did and snapping, “not from you.”
He’s falling back into how he was before, how they were before, but whether or not they ever stopped is another question Miyuki’s not answering.
Out loud, anyway. If he’s managed to put things on hold this long, he can probably hold off long enough for Kuramochi to—
“You should come, you know.” Kuramochi pauses. “To one of my games. If you want.”
Miyuki takes his time answering, waving a hand to the rest of the cafe they’re in: “Trying to return the favour? Or did you just miss me that much?”
Kuramochi rolls his eyes. “Or not. Forget I asked—you’ll do whatever you want, anyway.”
“Well,” Miyuki laughs even if he doesn’t think anything’s funny, “You’re not wrong there, are you.”
He does go, though. But Kuramochi’s right—Miyuki’s always done what he wanted, which means he didn’t tell Kuramochi he was coming, choosing a seat close to the dugout. It’s got a terrible view of the game but an excellent look at the infield; close enough that Miyuki frowns at a particularly shitty call from the catcher out of habit, far enough it’s not so difficult to draw away from home plate to follow the ball’s path.
It’s a pick-off to second, and Miyuki knows Kuramochi’ll catch it before it happens, leaving him enough—too much, not enough—time to recognise the familiar pivot of Kuramochi’s turn, turned towards Miyuki, glove against Miyuki’s chest, hand on his shoulder before Kuramochi’s turning away completely—
Miyuki blinks, and this time Kuramochi’s still turned to him. He’s supposed to change sides, everyone else already moving off the field but Kuramochi’s looking straight at him.
This time, Miyuki lets himself look back.
…
Miyuki’s used to being one step ahead of everyone.
(Call it years of experience—learning how to sidestep bullies since the Little Leagues, how to weave his way out of math class to sneak ten-minute glances at gameplays on his phone before koshien.)
The past few weeks have been humbling in that respect. There are things Miyuki’s realized he can’t constantly account for: his thoughts, his actions, and he’s too stubborn to admit it, but he’s finding that he can’t force his feelings to cooperate with him either.
Feelings. Worst timing ever, years too late—
“Miyuki. Oi, Miyuki!”
Kuramochi is staring with a default expression (‘what the hell is wrong with you’) and Miyuki forces an equally default smile.
“The hell is on your mind?” The words are sharp, but Miyuki’s known Kuramochi too long (maybe that’s the worst part) to read it as anything but concern.
He almost laughs.
Honestly, it sucks. That it’s years after haphazardly organizing and reorganizing his priorities; years after seeing everything he could ever want in this instant handed to him (rejected) on a silver platter—
That it’s taken him years to summon up the safe he’s chained up, tossed into the furthest crevice of his mind—next to the shoulder injury, next to a missed Major League opportunity, next to everything else he’s tried to will into nonexistence.
Then again, he can’t deny that he’s been practicing for this exact moment for equally too long. He’s been running through stupid lines, ways of saying Hey, it’s funny, I’ve been in love with you and I’m finally as brave as you. He doesn’t want to concede that he messed up in the first place, that he’s the one who didn’t account for regret, for pining, for an unprecedented desire to brush the dust off of an age-old too-precious thing to say Hey, I missed this, I missed you, imagine if we never had to wait on a chance encounter again.
There’s a puzzled expression on Kuramochi’s face and Miyuki wants to kiss it off.
“Hey,” he begins, and he already regrets the way the word rolls off of his tongue, “who’s the unlucky person you’re seeing these days?”
Kuramochi twitches. “What,” he states. “My family? Saw Nabe-chan the other day. Told him you’re as annoying as ever. I’ve seen an awful lot of your ugly face, too.”
“Aw, thanks.” Miyuki’s heart is beating a little too quickly for comfort but he’s nothing if not an expert at feigning composure. “Unfortunately, that’s not what—”
“No shit, that’s not what you meant,” Kuramochi interjects. and Miyuki is reminded for the nth time that Kuramochi is nothing if not an expert at seeing through Miyuki’s bullshit. “Why are you asking?”
There’s no eloquent way of saying: you could say it’s because I’m in love with you.
But he’s wasted too much time—hours, months, years—and Miyuki doesn’t know if he can bring himself to waste any more.
“Just,” Miyuki starts, “wondering who got you. I think I hate them already.” He slides a hand over his face to hide how ridiculous and too real this feels now that it’s out, the implication sitting thick and heavy between them.
“Oi.” Kuramochi’s tone is steeled, like he’s trying to tether his own emotions to reason. “Are you an idiot?”
Miyuki tries in vain to stifle out a laugh. “Discreet as ever.”
“I wasn’t joking. Are you really that stupid?” Kuramochi demands. A calloused palm presses against Miyuki’s hand then, tugging it away from his face. “Say it again, asshole. Say it properly.”
“Nah, it’s fine.” His jaw clenches. He tries to free his hand from Kuramochi’s grip to no avail. “Forget about it—”
“Can you stop being a coward for one second?”
Miyuki stills. He glances up from the floor and air leaves his lungs when he processes Kuramochi’s expression, processes the fact that this isn’t just (was never just) a ploy for revenge.
From the start, this was never karma for being too absorbed into his own shell.
(I think I’m in love with you.)
“Oh.”
This feels like a resolution.
(I’m in love with you.)
Realization dawns on him and his heart races too, too quickly.
“Hey,” Miyuki starts again, “I—”
SERIES: Daiya no A
SHIP: Kuramochi Youichi/Miyuki Kazuya
RATING: T
CHARACTERS: Kuramochi Youichi, Miyuki Kazuya
SIDE PAIRINGS: None
MAJOR TAGS: None
ADDITIONAL TAGS: confessions, pining, time skip/post-canon, nonlinear narrative
SUMMARY: He’s falling back into how he was before, how they were before, but whether or not they ever stopped is another question Miyuki’s not answering.
WORK COUNT: 3932 words, 5 images
SCRIPT: N/A
NOTES: None
The day goes like this.
There are people everywhere; parents and classmates and kouhai milling around, offering congratulations and words of wisdom. Kuramochi lost track of Miyuki for a while, separated by the ebb and flow of bodies and well-wishes.
(That he and Miyuki gravitated towards each other following the ceremony isn’t a surprise, given the course of the past few months, where they were drawn to each other more and more like moths to a lantern.)
Kuramochi’s mother is somewhere, with his grandfather, probably looking for him.
But right now his focus is here—on what he just said, a stream of thought and emotion that culminated in three small-yet-monumental words:
“—I like you.”
Miyuki blinks, expression blank but for a faint trace of surprise present in the upward tilt of his brows.
Admittedly, Kuramochi himself doesn’t quite believe what came out of his mouth.
Not that it hasn’t been on his mind for months—there was just always a question of timing, ensuring he didn’t undo everything they had with just a few words because he couldn’t keep his feelings—rough and undefined, a handful if there ever was one—to himself.
But graduation turned the question of timing into a question of whether or not he’ll have time at all, after this.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, there’s a moment of peace. Crystallized, compact—almost as if Kuramochi could reach out and cup it in his palms.
Finally:
“A graduation confession, Kuramochi?” Miyuki asks. He says it as though it’s something cute, or something quaint, and with each word Kuramochi can feel that crystalline peace begin to splinter and crack, something he feels from his fingertips and up his arms, splitting his chest into pieces.
He knows, immediately, where this is going.
Miyuki looks up for a moment, through the branches of the sakura tree they found themselves under.
“I can’t say I feel the same.”
Not: you’re delusional.
Not: you must be joking.
Not even: I don’t feel the same.
Just: I can’t.
If he’s trying to convince Kuramochi he doesn’t feel the same way, then well—
He’s not buying it.
Kuramochi clenches his fists. “That’s it, then?”
Miyuki looks back at him, a carefully constructed smile masking anything that might be on his mind. “I don’t know what else you want me to say.”
Kuramochi thinks back to the day their retirement from the team became official—when he stood on the field with Miyuki and thought to himself maybe this was something he had a shot at.
He thinks back across the months that followed, stretching from then all the way to now. months spent watching, wondering, letting himself hope. Letting himself believe that this was going to go in a direction that didn’t end in disaster.
Kuramochi knows, looking at Miyuki’s face, that Miyuki is obfuscating. Hiding behind a mask (and maybe that stings most, honestly, because Kuramochi thought they were past that, thought he broke through some time ago), trying to slip out of giving Kuramochi an honest answer just so he can escape this without engaging at all.
He’s afraid.
Kuramochi knows the feeling, because it lurked at the back of his mouth for months, and just when he let himself believe he overcame it—just long enough to get the words out, to take that step—it threatens now to rush up like bile.
He thought the risk was worth it.
Clearly Miyuki doesn't agree.
Kuramochi swallows. “Okay.”
Miyuki waits, as if expecting Kuramochi to say something else.
(He wants to do more than that, wants to grab Miyuki by the lapels and demand an explanation, demand the truth—but if Miyuki decided he isn’t worth it there’s little point in that.)
Finally, Miyuki nods and starts to turn away. “I’ll see you.”
Kuramochi clenches his fists. “See you.”
Kuramochi watches Miyuki leave through a wisp of loose sakura petals.
Until his last breath, Kuramochi will never consider his words at graduation a mistake—not in retrospect, not in hindsight, not even so much because of what happens after but because of what happens before.
Months ago, after retirement, after he looks at Miyuki standing on that field with their time on the team behind them and the rest of their lives in front of them, he decides that he wants more than what they’re used to.
His relationship with Miyuki, it can be said, exists as one built on habit. Playing together, eating together, studying together—living together, in every sense of the word—meant that there’s practically an entire lifetime’s worth of traditions.
Finding motivation to break a habit is easier said than done.
It happens, then, like this.
It happens in the touches that, before, would have been over and done with within moments but now stretch for two seconds longer than they need to.
During the post-retirement, intra-squad game, Miyuki grasps his wrist after a home run. Objectively, it shouldn’t feel any different than any other time they’ve done this, but it does. Kuramochi, chest still heaving from running to home plate from second, can feel each of Miyuki’s fingers pressing into his skin with perfect clarity, feels how they squeeze in tandem with his eyes, which crinkle at the corners with the strength of his smile directed right at Kuramochi.
Miyuki pulls away after what feels like an age, accepting other congratulations from Zono, from Shirasu and Nabe. He’s glowing, soaking in the last taste of competition they’ll have here at Seido, and it takes active effort not to stare.
Kuramochi swears he can feel Miyuki’s grip for the rest of the game.
It happens in the moments they share in class, where Miyuki is layers on layers on layers.
Before, it was as though Miyuki never wanted his classmates to see him as he was, and he hid behind the cover of baseball, absorbed in scorebooks and messing with Kuramochi. Now, with retirement behind them, things shift while somehow staying exactly the same. They’re still the two kids at the edge of the classroom that only talk to each other, and Miyuki, predictably, doesn’t stop talking about baseball (Kuramochi would have been concerned if he had).
What changes is what comes in between. Moments where Kuramochi can hear doubt creep into Miyuki’s voice, where he can feel Miyuki casting around for an answer, for a right way forward now that the thing they’ve spent the past three years of their life focusing on is coming to a close.
Miyuki lets him in.
It happens late one night, sitting in the dugout after they watched practice, sitting within mere breaths of each other. Ostensibly, it’s to ward off the early spring chill. Their thighs brush, and Kuramochi finds his eyes drawn to where Miyuki’s hand rests on his own knee.
After a long stretch of comfortable silence (something they’ve learned, something that’s become part of their routine), Kuramochi looks at Miyuki from his periphery. “They’re gonna be fine.”
Miyuki smiles. “I know.”
In a field of uncertainty, it’s good to find at least one thing they can both count on, something sure.
Kuramochi wants to say that they’re going to be fine too, even if it doesn’t seem like it now, even if everything is one giant question mark, like they’re hovering at the edge of a precipice, where the bottom is the destination but there’s no way to get down except to jump.
He thinks Miyuki might just be willing to let him take his hand, right then, in order to say what he can’t seem to put into words. But he holds back—now isn’t the right moment.
It’ll come, he tells himself.
It’s not like Kuramochi hasn’t thought about it before.
He has. For a while, actually.
(Sometimes, when he leans too close at dinner and his shoulder bumps Miyuki’s.
Sometimes, when they’re doubled over in laughter at someone else’s expense.
Sometimes, when he watches Miyuki, when he thinks about how he’s grown—how they’ve grown—during their time at Seido.
Sometimes, in easy moments where they’re drifting closer and closer, separate space verging into shared space, he thinks he wants more of that with Miyuki. More of this.)
But he can’t have that. They can’t have that.
At least… not when they’ve got one summer left, one more chance. Not when Koshien is something obtainable if they reach high enough for it. The last thing he wants is a botched confession to mess up their chances, a few misread interactions to sever a team dynamic they’ve worked so hard to build.
Baseball’s always come first. For Miyuki. For Kuramochi.
And for now, he’s able to push aside those thoughts even though they’re often betrayed by his actions. For now, he’s able to settle for getting an out at second off the ball Miyuki sends flying his way, sliding into home and scoring a run off a hit from Miyuki, getting closer to victory—inch by inch—until they take the whole thing.
(nice run / nice hit / we won
hands brushing / wide smiles, laughter / Kuramochi’s fingers clasped tight around Miyuki’s forearm.)
For now, this is enough.
“It really is our last time here, huh?”
They stand on Seido’s baseball field, setting sun on their backs. The only difference between now and their start here three years ago: these jerseys belong to retired players rather than current ones, victors rather than beginners.
(Another difference: In first year, Kuramochi couldn’t imagine standing this close to Miyuki—shoulder to shoulder as teammates, as friends. Back then, he had thought he’d wanted to stay as far away as possible. But now…)
now:
“You’re probably glad to escape being captain,” Kuramochi jokes, laugh fond as he nudges Miyuki’s shoulder, casual.
“Maybe I’ll miss it.” Miyuki doesn’t turn to Kuramochi just yet, like he wants to look at the field a little longer. His profile’s illuminated by the setting sun when Kuramochi looks at him, bright orange glow behind him. It looks good. He looks good.
(He thinks of Miyuki’s fingers curled tight around his wrist, the shout of people around them, the tears they’d shed and smiles they’d shared. He thinks of his arm slung around Miyuki’s shoulders, the laughter loud and clear and theirs in this moment of victory they’d fought for until it was their own.)
It’s too bright, too warm. Kuramochi looks away, but he can feel Miyuki’s eyes on him now.
(He thinks of the feeling for Miyuki that’s carved a place in his heart now. The one that’s slipped through the netting Kuramochi’s always had protecting it, even though he’d tried to ignore or dismiss or push it away for a while now. It’s nothing. You don’t need this. You don’t want this.)
But, the thing is… the thing is that he thinks he does. He does want it. He has for who knows how long, even though he’s done absolutely nothing to act on it.
(He thinks of the words he hasn’t said, the actions he hasn’t taken. He thinks of the easy, natural shift in his feelings for Miyuki—annoyance to camaraderie to friendship, fondness and affection. He thinks that he wants whatever this is to be a definite rather than a could be, wants it to be something that stretches beyond baseball at Seido now that even that’s over.)
He knows he cares about Miyuki. He knows that he’d miss Miyuki if this is where they ended things—clean cut, clean break.
And Kuramochi thinks that if he lets his cynical mind rule his considerably more hopeful heart, he might regret it.
He knows he’d regret it.
“Yeah.”
...
Miyuki relishes in the small amount of time he has waiting for his morning train. He keeps a pretty busy schedule these days (one he both loves and hates) and rarely has a free moment to just stop and be. It’s not exactly ideal when he tries to keep up with the pro baseball circuit on television during the season, when all he wants is a minute to lounge and actually eat his food, rather than inhale it.
Speaking of food—he unwraps the sandwich he’d picked up at Lawson's on his way to the station and takes a bite, watching as a train across the platform pulls in, passengers unloading. He feels the coils of dread wrapping around his insides as he realizes he still has ten whole minutes until his own train arrives, and he remembers why he keeps himself so busy.
It leaves him very little time to think.
It isn’t so much the actual thinking that bothers him as it is getting stuck in thoughts that leave him feeling helpless and disgusting. Disgust because of that day, because of the feelings he tries so hard to bury won’t stay buried. Helpless because he is too much of a coward to do anything about it (cowardice leads to disgust which leads to cowardice—a never-ending loop).
It’s been too long now; it’s too late. He’s too late. Too late in realizing what he threw away. Too late to do anything about it.
Seven minutes left until his train, and he’s stepped on a landmine (how long had they been there?) Whenever he least expected it (even when he did), there they were. Directly in his path and all labeled the same thing:
Kuramochi Youichi.
Boom! The landmine detonates and all the unwanted (or wanted) emotions swirl around, enveloping him, making it difficult to breathe, to think, to rip his mind away from him.
He checks his watch—four minutes left. Four minutes spent reliving that day. Reliving the days, months, years after. He remembers how acutely aware of his mistake he became.
Mistake. It took him too long to admit that much. Once he had, it's all that seemed to consume his mind, his being. Mistake. Regret. Sorrow. Anger.
Coward.
And just like that, everything (almost everything) melts away as he looks up and sees the one person that makes him the most excited, most terrified.
Somehow, Kuramochi Youichi is there, in the same train station, walking straight towards him. Miyuki turns away, certain he hasn’t been spotted yet.
Coward.
Two minutes until his train rescues him. Even less before Kuramochi walks by.
Coward.
Kuramochi may not see him, but Miyuki sees Kuramochi. Feels that lurch in his chest, a feeling long forgotten. How long has it been? He'd stopped counting (another landmine goes off).
He should say something. This is his chance (one he lost years ago) They drifted apart and Miyuki convinced himself it was on good terms. But years of bitterness, left unaddressed, had no doubt taken Kuramochi from him (he'd practically pushed him away himself).
No. It’s better to think Kuramochi doesn’t hate him. He can’t bear to imagine any ounce of hatred in those eyes—hatred reserved for him (as well-deserved as it might be).
One minute left and he can feel time slow even more as Kuramochi walks closer, closer and finally past. His chest aches with a fresh layer of regret. But with it comes a sense of relief; he avoided the one thing he doesn’t think he can ever face head on.
30 seconds and he feels the air around him get sucked away as an all-too-familiar voice fills his ears.
“Miyuki?”
From three years to three weeks. Miyuki managed not to hear anything from Kuramochi for three years, a radio silence he allowed to happen as much as time and space helped to widen, life itself a constant pull away from everything Miyuki himself couldn’t consistently put enough distance from. But it’s not like he never heard anything about him; the convenient part about avoiding Kuramochi is not having to admit he’s kept up with Kuramochi’s career with a meticulousness rivalling his high school scorebook review sessions.
I know you don’t think you’re doing enough, Kuramochi said back then, three in the morning and Miyuki’s hands the steadiest thing about him, but you are. You always have. And maybe he was right, but Miyuki doesn’t think he was wrong, either: three years of radio silence falling away into three weeks since Miyuki saw Kuramochi again at the station. Since Miyuki saw Kuramochi first but Kuramochi still spoke up before Miyuki could (like Miyuki would have anyway).
And now, now Miyuki’s looking across a table at Kuramochi and Kuramochi’s laugh, deeper than he remembers but triggering just as fast and fierce a headrush.
“I’d say I’m surprised, but. I’m really not,” Kuramochi says, and Miyuki blinks, plays it off with a yawn he barely feels over trembling hands tucked out of sight under the table. Out of sight, but not out of mind.
Miyuki ignores it, drawling out instead, “Well, I guess miracles happen after all. Like your semi-decent batting average this season—”
Ah. Not quite out of sight either, then.
If Kuramochi’s surprised it doesn’t show. But then again, it never did, so Miyuki doesn’t think this is anything to feel relieved about. He’s relieved anyway.
“Of course you’re still keeping up with the scores,” Kuramochi huffs. He sounds rougher than Miyuki’s re-acquainted with, so maybe he’s not the only one looking for the familiarity of baseball to fall into, relatively safe from conversational hazards neatly compartmentalised under either What’ve You Been Doing All Along and it’s not mutually exclusive neighbour, Why Bother Telling Me Now?
Miyuki shrugs. “Thought it was only fair you get to redeem your sorry stats. Even if it is three years late.”
“Yeah?” Kuramochi says, and even now Miyuki hears what he’s not saying: So? Is that it?
Like that, it’s easier and harder for Miyuki to quip back with, “fishing for compliments, Kuramochi?” the way he always did, Kuramochi kicking at his shin under the table the way he always did and snapping, “not from you.”
He’s falling back into how he was before, how they were before, but whether or not they ever stopped is another question Miyuki’s not answering.
Out loud, anyway. If he’s managed to put things on hold this long, he can probably hold off long enough for Kuramochi to—
“You should come, you know.” Kuramochi pauses. “To one of my games. If you want.”
Miyuki takes his time answering, waving a hand to the rest of the cafe they’re in: “Trying to return the favour? Or did you just miss me that much?”
Kuramochi rolls his eyes. “Or not. Forget I asked—you’ll do whatever you want, anyway.”
“Well,” Miyuki laughs even if he doesn’t think anything’s funny, “You’re not wrong there, are you.”
He does go, though. But Kuramochi’s right—Miyuki’s always done what he wanted, which means he didn’t tell Kuramochi he was coming, choosing a seat close to the dugout. It’s got a terrible view of the game but an excellent look at the infield; close enough that Miyuki frowns at a particularly shitty call from the catcher out of habit, far enough it’s not so difficult to draw away from home plate to follow the ball’s path.
It’s a pick-off to second, and Miyuki knows Kuramochi’ll catch it before it happens, leaving him enough—too much, not enough—time to recognise the familiar pivot of Kuramochi’s turn, turned towards Miyuki, glove against Miyuki’s chest, hand on his shoulder before Kuramochi’s turning away completely—
Miyuki blinks, and this time Kuramochi’s still turned to him. He’s supposed to change sides, everyone else already moving off the field but Kuramochi’s looking straight at him.
This time, Miyuki lets himself look back.
Miyuki’s used to being one step ahead of everyone.
(Call it years of experience—learning how to sidestep bullies since the Little Leagues, how to weave his way out of math class to sneak ten-minute glances at gameplays on his phone before koshien.)
The past few weeks have been humbling in that respect. There are things Miyuki’s realized he can’t constantly account for: his thoughts, his actions, and he’s too stubborn to admit it, but he’s finding that he can’t force his feelings to cooperate with him either.
Feelings. Worst timing ever, years too late—
“Miyuki. Oi, Miyuki!”
Kuramochi is staring with a default expression (‘what the hell is wrong with you’) and Miyuki forces an equally default smile.
“The hell is on your mind?” The words are sharp, but Miyuki’s known Kuramochi too long (maybe that’s the worst part) to read it as anything but concern.
He almost laughs.
Honestly, it sucks. That it’s years after haphazardly organizing and reorganizing his priorities; years after seeing everything he could ever want in this instant handed to him (rejected) on a silver platter—
That it’s taken him years to summon up the safe he’s chained up, tossed into the furthest crevice of his mind—next to the shoulder injury, next to a missed Major League opportunity, next to everything else he’s tried to will into nonexistence.
Then again, he can’t deny that he’s been practicing for this exact moment for equally too long. He’s been running through stupid lines, ways of saying Hey, it’s funny, I’ve been in love with you and I’m finally as brave as you. He doesn’t want to concede that he messed up in the first place, that he’s the one who didn’t account for regret, for pining, for an unprecedented desire to brush the dust off of an age-old too-precious thing to say Hey, I missed this, I missed you, imagine if we never had to wait on a chance encounter again.
There’s a puzzled expression on Kuramochi’s face and Miyuki wants to kiss it off.
“Hey,” he begins, and he already regrets the way the word rolls off of his tongue, “who’s the unlucky person you’re seeing these days?”
Kuramochi twitches. “What,” he states. “My family? Saw Nabe-chan the other day. Told him you’re as annoying as ever. I’ve seen an awful lot of your ugly face, too.”
“Aw, thanks.” Miyuki’s heart is beating a little too quickly for comfort but he’s nothing if not an expert at feigning composure. “Unfortunately, that’s not what—”
“No shit, that’s not what you meant,” Kuramochi interjects. and Miyuki is reminded for the nth time that Kuramochi is nothing if not an expert at seeing through Miyuki’s bullshit. “Why are you asking?”
There’s no eloquent way of saying: you could say it’s because I’m in love with you.
But he’s wasted too much time—hours, months, years—and Miyuki doesn’t know if he can bring himself to waste any more.
“Just,” Miyuki starts, “wondering who got you. I think I hate them already.” He slides a hand over his face to hide how ridiculous and too real this feels now that it’s out, the implication sitting thick and heavy between them.
“Oi.” Kuramochi’s tone is steeled, like he’s trying to tether his own emotions to reason. “Are you an idiot?”
Miyuki tries in vain to stifle out a laugh. “Discreet as ever.”
“I wasn’t joking. Are you really that stupid?” Kuramochi demands. A calloused palm presses against Miyuki’s hand then, tugging it away from his face. “Say it again, asshole. Say it properly.”
“Nah, it’s fine.” His jaw clenches. He tries to free his hand from Kuramochi’s grip to no avail. “Forget about it—”
“Can you stop being a coward for one second?”
Miyuki stills. He glances up from the floor and air leaves his lungs when he processes Kuramochi’s expression, processes the fact that this isn’t just (was never just) a ploy for revenge.
From the start, this was never karma for being too absorbed into his own shell.
(I think I’m in love with you.)
“Oh.”
This feels like a resolution.
(I’m in love with you.)
Realization dawns on him and his heart races too, too quickly.
“Hey,” Miyuki starts again, “I—”
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The second art with Miyuki gradually dissolving away was really cool and symbolic and that second to last Miyuki, his expression was so good; worried and vulnerable *sigh*
Good job!
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im dead thank u kamisama
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The push and pull was all too real here. The (almost) missed opportunities, the (temporarily) misaligned feelings—they were all so palpable here. ;_; I really felt for the two of them, but I thought Kuramochi was done particularly well. His brash attitude still shone, yet here he was /feeling things/ and trying to brush it off like the silly teenage boy-cusp-adult he was attempting to be. GAH. THEN YOU HAVE MIYUKI BEING #REGRET AND EVERYTHING BUT STILL UNABLE TO ADMIT TO HIS OWN FEELINGS, which is honestly totally him from what I've read.
I love that they take a stupidly long time to even get some closure (because boys, come on). The characterization and the writing were spectacular. I particularly loved the fragile crystallization of peace line in Kuramochi's bit after confessing! The style flowed so well and managed to pull you in through all the emotional tidal waves. ALL OF THE ART IS SO GOOD. I LOVE THE FACIAL EXPRESSIONS IN EACH OF THEM, OR THEIR COMPOSITIONS THAT JUST ADDED FEELIOS.
THANK YOU SO MUCH, TEAM KURAMIYU; THIS WAS SO GOOD ;;;
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and thank you so much for this wonderful comment! we are really so happy you enjoyed it! <3
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I like how you start with the confession scene - a lot of things like to build up to that and end there, but in this case it's different: it's a climax of sorts and yet still a beginning, and the graduation setting gives it that much more of an impact.
shfljksadjfl this is it exactly - that sort of beautiful, wonderful writing that just makes you want to sit and stare at it.
And your artists are incredible - that first picture, oh, just going through Miyuki's expressions, I -- I CAN'T EVEN DEAL, THERE ARE THE MOST SUBTLE CHANGES OF EXPRESSION THERE AND SUCH DEPTHS OF EMOTION CONVEYED LIKE -- HOW -- ungjdksfllf it's such a beautiful art style. It's so incredible I can barely type properly like hE LOOKS SO GOOD AND HIS HAIR AND THE LINES AND THE BLOCKS OF COLOUR AND THE FALLING PETALS ahhhh I really like the sharper angles paired with the mixed delicacy and boldness of the lines - it's so goooooood sjkd,fnaml;k
And how Miyuki just cuts through that atmosphere, his careful wording:
na,jfknaj all the exposition on this line - the difference between I don't and I can't. The nuances of their conversation are written so beautifully and I'm going to use the word beautiful a thousand times in this comment but this entry really is. just.
The fact that Kuramochi sees right through Miyuki, too - I'm so sold on their relationship and the strengths of it, their ability to read one another and how Kuramochi understands in a way that, honestly, is absent from a lot of other Miyuki ships. They feel like equals, and it's so good I'm dissolving right now to be honest really struggling to stay coherent in the face of THIS SHIP TO RULE ALL SHIPS
UGH THAT SECOND PIC TOO your team has expressions down - the detail around Kuramochi's, the bitter line of his lips slkfjnalkmd this is such a gorgeous work let me just lie down here and
mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm 'Miyuki lets him in' ahljnfslkaf THIS. THIS IS IT.
skdfh'sjdlkjsa and this is so heartbreaking after the first section, but hoping, coming back to it knowing that they will indeed be fine THEY'LL JUST TAKE A LONG TIME GETTING TO IT and you really feel Kuramochi's patience, his way of handling Miyuki. It's so considerate sjkldf it just - you look at it and you just think love, you look at Kuramochi and you die a little because how can one person be so wonderful
/sighs a million times I really want to quote this entire section I mean I'm already halfway there and like. That last little section at the end - everything you convey with that barrage of dialogue 'nice run / nice hit / we won' and then the little moments after, those snapshots of their relationship told through body language. And the baseball imagery - the metaphor sjdlfka and 'for now, this is enough' ahhhh
Having this circle right back to the earlier section feels so right and yet so sorrowful. It's such a great way to conclude Kuramochi's section and move on to Miyuki's, like, Kuramochi's done his part. IT'S SO GOOD I REALLY CANNOT DEAL
I really like the train station art too, setting things up for the next bit! Miyuki's schedule - the way the thoughts flow through his brain - it's a different atmosphere to the previous sections but it links in really well.
/eases back into this section it is sO LOVELY
sjklfhakl www this line I LOVE IT
And Yes to banter always yes to KuraMiyu banter :D How there's still that thread of tension there, an awkwardness that you express through a really brilliant command of rhythm and pace, and like, the conversation itself isn't particularly awkward but the narrative around it makes it so, if that makes sense?
ahhh my heart because Miyuki let Kuramochi in all those years ago but he didn't let himself reciprocate and now --
NOW KURAMOCHI IS JUST AS AMAZING AS EVER I LOVE HIM SO MUCH HE IS THE COOLEST
'I'm finally as brave as you' ahhhhhhhhh my heart again ahhh this section ahhh this entire fic
and
Yes this and Miyuki's fumbling attempts at skirting around things and then Kuramochi's ability to just cut through all of that: 'Say it again', 'Can you stop being a coward for one second'.
ahhhhh this is the most amazing ending I just love that the thoughts and Miyuki's last words cut off there but we all know and the artwork too, his open, almost vulnerable expression and how happy they are finally at the very end dsjflkafjgs;lgjk
This is so beautifully crafted. All the best for the voting!
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