Hisashi can still hear Eijun chirping from the bench outside, sits curling and uncurling his fingers from the edge of it.
It's cold, now, wind at his nose, and moreso in the evenings when there's no desperate running, just chatter about tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. He glances at the scorebook beside him, edges started to batter, back pages warping from the moisture.
He sighs and leans back, rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes to Tokyo's winter smog.
Winter is fragile with the flaky, cold edges of ice forming on the dugout roofs and on windows and in the crunching dead grass. Winter is fragile with the way Kazuya is still finding new and irritating ways his injury is still nagging, now and then, leaving him doing compensatory stretches to offset. He's twisting his ribcage in the chilly Tokyo air, waving off Sawamura's nagging for more bullpen time when he turns the corner and spots Nabe. He slows to a stop, lungs chilly from the open curve of Nabe's throat, and he swallows.
He moves to sit next to him, scooping up the scorebook into his lap, and plucks aimlessly at a slowly curling corner. "Don't fall asleep," he says, leaning close enough he can feel the warmth of a body next to his.
There's something about evening, particularly the kind of night where stillness likes to settle deep in skin, that makes being alone, being together, more pronounced.
Hisashi feels Miyuki before he hears him, used to the way the hair on his arms stands on end when Miyuki is too near. It's as familiar now as the blistering swell of his hands, and he holds his fingers tight in his lap. Tries not to think about brushing thighs.
"How could I?" and he nods in the direction of the miniature cacophany, smiles softly.
He's trying not to look at Nabe's hands, because that way is every goosebump on his arms screaming danger. Instead he settles back against the wall, tilts the scorebook in his lap. He traces stray marks on the scorebook's top page with his finger, the tiny notes marked in empty spaces, a system he still doesn't quite understand. Their shoulders would touch if he simply shifted the tiniest bit. He doesn't.
"Weirder things have happened," he protests, turning his chin to the side and lifting one corner of his mouth loosely. (It's hard not to smile back at Nabe.) "Today was rough." It's still sitting in his ribs, pulling at his ribs. He'll have to change out for a thicker jacket tomorrow.
"If I fell asleep now, I think I'd probably dream of running drills," Hisashi says, more to the building across from them than to Miyuki. He can see Miyuki's hands moving on the scorebook in the peripheral, and it makes his palms itch.
He rubs them flat across his sweatpants abruptly, pitting his anxiety against the jersey texture aimlessly. Sits upright, steeling himself in his spine, and pats his knees with finality.
"I guess I should find something else to do first, then, right?" and he hopes it comes off secure, easy, hopes thoughts of being as interesting to Miyuki as that scorebook don't show on his face.
"Isn't that a nightmare?" Kazuya wonders, airily, and then Nabe is moving, sharp sounds and hurried words, and he blinks at him, mouth momentarily gently open, tipped down at the corners.
"Don't -" he stops, slides his palm across the scorebook as much part of Nabe as the sweatpants his knuckles brush up against when his hand stops, curled loosely half-open until he can tuck his fingers over the back of Nabe's wrist, loop them gently to keep Nabe here in this half-space, where the team isn't but they are. A place frozen between the cold of the field and the crowded warmth of the dorms - appropriate, maybe. "You don't have to go anywhere." I don't want you to go anywhere, but that's still too raw to say.
Miyuki's fingertips are fire on his pulse, veins of lava, rushing heat all across his skin, and Hisashi is sure he'll burn up like this.
But that's normal, right? He thinks, it's normal to curl up under kotatsu in winter, to reach out to a campfire to dry out your palms. He moves to stand in front of Miyuki, doesn't shake off the hold on his wrist or the stutter still hanging in the air.
"Or, you could come with me," chilly breeze whipping at his hair, cooling his forehead but not his cheeks.
Kazuya lets his arm swing while Nabe moves, slides his heels back across the ground to make room so he isn't tripping, and catches Nabe's eye. When his hair gets messed up like that, Kazuya's always got the urge to brush it back down nudging at his fingers.
"I--" he laughs, jittery, and twists his wrist to tuck his fingers around Nabe's palm, instead. "Yeah, I could do that, couldn't I?" He rocks to his feet, rushing because if he doesn't, he starts to have second thoughts with the subtitle Cowardice. He bumps into Nabe's space like he hadn't, before, grip pulsing gently tight around Nabe's fingers.
Miyuki's hand feels heavy in his own, not shifting the slightest even as Miyuki gets to his feet. Miyuki agreeing without a thought, quick and unsteady movement to get upright, was not a part of Hisashi's mental calculations. He was expecting hesitation, reluctance, but he supposes he should have known better than to expect Miyuki of all people to give him a free out.
They could go back to reviewing matches like they usually do, scorebook and rewinds a buffer against the raw edge Hisashi feels when they're alone; people nearby if he has to seek refuge from the worst of Miyuki's running commentary. But it all sort of feels like overwrought excuses, and Hisashi knows the pause to think has run awkward.
He twists his wrist to lace their fingers together, distribute the weight of warm skin between them.
"I didn't really have anywhere in mind, yet," and leans in a little to say it, like it could be a secret, just the two of them.
The space between them is small enough that that minute shortening of it is enough to strangle something in Kazuya's throat. His grip tightens just a notch in reaction, putting skin-to-skin contact even closer together from wrist to fingertip. His eyelashes flutter short behind his glasses as he looks down at Nabe.
"Now there's a shocker, you not knowing something," he teases, soft in the space. "My roommate's not usually in around now," he offers, wondering if that's unfair, if that's putting something too heavy on him. "But I'm sure we can find somewhere, if you don't... want to," he continues, trailing off with a little uncertainty.
His fingers twitch against Nabe's, and suddenly he feels like his palms have to be pond-slick. He swallows, and hopes it's not obvious, but knows it probably is.
"And then what?" Hisashi thinks to himself, too many theoretical dead-ends and bad outcomes buzzing in his head. But Miyuki's tenderness is new, and he's curious, desperately curious, so he puts the math to rest and looks for trust instead.
He brushes his thumb past Miyuki's knuckle as reassurance, for both of them. "That's fine," he starts, stumbles a little on it, "I don't mind."
He waits, weak with hope, and breathes out heavy worry, Nabe's thumb grounding him. The start-stop-start again rattles him a little, but it shouldn't be a surprise he's not alone on new ground. He shifts his weight, a corner of his mouth twitching.
"I'm... glad," he says, because he is. It's awkward with a certain uncertainty, and he shakes off the admission, itching with that constant urge to move forward, leave anything less than ironclad and untouchable behind. Because it's Nabe, though, he tries to do it slowly. "C'mon, then, before we freeze standing up." He moves carefully toward the dugout's entrance, his hand slipping slowly - regretfully - from Nabe's. It feels colder than it had before: he tucks his fingers into his pockets to stave it off.
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no subject
It's cold, now, wind at his nose, and moreso in the evenings when there's no desperate running, just chatter about tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. He glances at the scorebook beside him, edges started to batter, back pages warping from the moisture.
He sighs and leans back, rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes to Tokyo's winter smog.
no subject
He moves to sit next to him, scooping up the scorebook into his lap, and plucks aimlessly at a slowly curling corner. "Don't fall asleep," he says, leaning close enough he can feel the warmth of a body next to his.
no subject
Hisashi feels Miyuki before he hears him, used to the way the hair on his arms stands on end when Miyuki is too near. It's as familiar now as the blistering swell of his hands, and he holds his fingers tight in his lap. Tries not to think about brushing thighs.
"How could I?" and he nods in the direction of the miniature cacophany, smiles softly.
no subject
"Weirder things have happened," he protests, turning his chin to the side and lifting one corner of his mouth loosely. (It's hard not to smile back at Nabe.) "Today was rough." It's still sitting in his ribs, pulling at his ribs. He'll have to change out for a thicker jacket tomorrow.
no subject
He rubs them flat across his sweatpants abruptly, pitting his anxiety against the jersey texture aimlessly. Sits upright, steeling himself in his spine, and pats his knees with finality.
"I guess I should find something else to do first, then, right?" and he hopes it comes off secure, easy, hopes thoughts of being as interesting to Miyuki as that scorebook don't show on his face.
no subject
"Don't -" he stops, slides his palm across the scorebook as much part of Nabe as the sweatpants his knuckles brush up against when his hand stops, curled loosely half-open until he can tuck his fingers over the back of Nabe's wrist, loop them gently to keep Nabe here in this half-space, where the team isn't but they are. A place frozen between the cold of the field and the crowded warmth of the dorms - appropriate, maybe. "You don't have to go anywhere." I don't want you to go anywhere, but that's still too raw to say.
no subject
But that's normal, right? He thinks, it's normal to curl up under kotatsu in winter, to reach out to a campfire to dry out your palms. He moves to stand in front of Miyuki, doesn't shake off the hold on his wrist or the stutter still hanging in the air.
"Or, you could come with me," chilly breeze whipping at his hair, cooling his forehead but not his cheeks.
no subject
"I--" he laughs, jittery, and twists his wrist to tuck his fingers around Nabe's palm, instead. "Yeah, I could do that, couldn't I?" He rocks to his feet, rushing because if he doesn't, he starts to have second thoughts with the subtitle Cowardice. He bumps into Nabe's space like he hadn't, before, grip pulsing gently tight around Nabe's fingers.
no subject
They could go back to reviewing matches like they usually do, scorebook and rewinds a buffer against the raw edge Hisashi feels when they're alone; people nearby if he has to seek refuge from the worst of Miyuki's running commentary. But it all sort of feels like overwrought excuses, and Hisashi knows the pause to think has run awkward.
He twists his wrist to lace their fingers together, distribute the weight of warm skin between them.
"I didn't really have anywhere in mind, yet," and leans in a little to say it, like it could be a secret, just the two of them.
no subject
"Now there's a shocker, you not knowing something," he teases, soft in the space. "My roommate's not usually in around now," he offers, wondering if that's unfair, if that's putting something too heavy on him. "But I'm sure we can find somewhere, if you don't... want to," he continues, trailing off with a little uncertainty.
His fingers twitch against Nabe's, and suddenly he feels like his palms have to be pond-slick. He swallows, and hopes it's not obvious, but knows it probably is.
no subject
He brushes his thumb past Miyuki's knuckle as reassurance, for both of them. "That's fine," he starts, stumbles a little on it, "I don't mind."
no subject
"I'm... glad," he says, because he is. It's awkward with a certain uncertainty, and he shakes off the admission, itching with that constant urge to move forward, leave anything less than ironclad and untouchable behind. Because it's Nabe, though, he tries to do it slowly. "C'mon, then, before we freeze standing up." He moves carefully toward the dugout's entrance, his hand slipping slowly - regretfully - from Nabe's. It feels colder than it had before: he tucks his fingers into his pockets to stave it off.