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One night, Sawamura asks Kazuya a question that he was never prepared to answer. Or, perhaps he had, in the back of his mind, known they’d have to confront this eventually — but it coming from Sawamura’s own mouth, tumbling and insecure, was not what Kazuya had planned for it to look like.
“What’re you gonna do if I turn out to be an alpha, Cap?”
The numbers and lines etched into the scorebook in front of Kazuya fade away until he isn’t quite sure what he’s looking at. He turns in his seat, hooking an arm over the back of his chair to blink down at Sawamura, who’s since dog-eared the page in his shoujo manga and set it aside, hugging the pillow beneath him. His face is carefully blank, though unmistakably pensive. It’s an unusual show of vulnerability from him. Though not completely unlike the brooding seat he’d taken one day in Kazuya’s room, asking about how much longer they might be playing baseball together with such an uncertain future. Since then, even after their win against Inajitsu, his behavior has just been… odd. He doesn’t feel well-equipped enough to be dealing with him like this. Finds that, maybe, the concept of dealing with Sawamura Eijun was only made a little bit easier since he retired as Captain of the team and handed that title over to Kanemaru. He’d know how to handle Sawamura more than anyone.
Kazuya breathes as he thinks, WWCD (What Would Chris Do), the only source of pheromones in the room lingering on Okumura’s combative notes, trying to overpower Kazuya’s, their other beta roommate from the second string, and Kuramochi’s clinging faintly at the entrance from when he visited earlier in the day.
And Kazuya isn’t quite sure what to say in response, so he chews his lip in thought, and hopes Sawamura doesn’t see the way his leg bounces under the desk. Yet, with Sawamura looking at him like that, brows set in a firm line, his eyes tracing Kazuya’s face for so much as a twitch, he knows he’s given himself away.
So, Kazuya breathes. Again. Let's the first thing that comes to his mind tumble out—joking, passive. Easy. Something that they both know.
“It’s a little too early in the game to worry about that right now, don’t you think? You’re such a stubborn pitcher by default, it makes me wonder if it’s ever going to happen,” Kazuya responds, lips pressing into a slack smile.
Early, the exact opposite of late, which Sawamura is. He’s a late bloomer, having gone through two years of high school without presenting, while his peers have long since checked their boxes on their medical forms three to four years prior. Amongst the scents Kazuya picks up in his dorm, Sawamura’s is nowhere to be found. He’s like a blank canvas. Clean. Uncannily undetectable. Nonexistent. Abnormal.
(Or perhaps, normal?)
Either way, it unsettles Kazuya. He’s glad that Sawamura can make himself known in his boisterous, over-the-top ways — and it likely all came from necessity.
To everyone else in the world, the poor pitcher is handicapped. To him, Sawamura has always been inevitable. He has always been right.
That is just a fact of nature. And of his actual nature, Kazuya can’t spare himself much of an intricate thought to it outside of their hectic schedules and everyday routine, or else, he’d run the risk of being too deep in with this boy.
(That was, until he met Sawamura. He still remembers the way Mei’s gaze had lingered on him curiously after their game against Shūhoku. How Kazuya subsequently received an email from him later that evening asking what he’d hoped for in Sawamura, and that it was apparent to Mei that Kazuya had the hots for him.)
He thinks, in all honesty, he doesn’t care what Sawamura presents as — as long as he, in some way, shape, or form, stays by his side for the long haul; something Kazuya has never managed to tell him properly when Sawamura was so down in the dumps about it. He also thinks that that sentiment might’ve sufficed rather than the untimely joke, judging by the twisting frown on Sawamura’s lips, the sharp downturn of his eyebrows.
“Asshole,” Sawamura grumbles, and he slaps his hand over his manga and pushes up from the floor.
Kazuya’s heart drops, and he sucks in another breath. Yet, this one comes quicker, hooking onto his pulmonary arteries before the organ can dip into his stomach in a desperate attempt to salvage the souring of their conversation. Still, he doesn’t get up to stand, only watching Sawamura from the slight turn of his chair. Because the thing is, Miyuki Kazuya is just as stubborn, and he’ll stay rooted in his seat no matter how much he feels like jumping out of his skin to stop him from walking out that door. “Hey, hey, slow down now. Where are you going?”
“Back to my room,” Sawamura answers him curtly. He clumsily pulls on one of his socks, and Kazuya thinks he doesn’t know that the one on his left foot has a little hole at the heel.
“Why? Did I make you angry?” Kazuya asks, even though he knows, watching Sawamura shove his feet into his beaten-up sneakers with a little more force than necessary.
“No,” Sawamura grunts. It’s a lie; they both know it. But Kazuya doesn’t stop him when he bends down to dig his left sock up from where it’d fallen under his heel, stretching the hole bigger, no doubt. “It’s just—your personality sucks! It’s like I can’t even have a serious conversation without you somehow trying to be funny, or, or—deflective! Stupid tanuki.”
“Thank you,” Kazuya says, slip of the tongue, before he can bite it back. He hears Sawamura’s nostrils flare with steam, and he glares over his shoulder at the catcher. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I’ll be serious and listen. Come back here,” Kazuya tries.
“I already put on my shoes,” Sawamura crosses his arms and harumphs. “If you want to talk, you can come here. Or, to my room. Either way, I’ll be leaving. You can’t even spare me the common courtesy of a thoughtful conversation, so I don’t know why I bother with you!”
“You’re being very difficult today, Sawamura. But what else is new?” Kazuya observes lightly, and honestly, when he thinks back on it, that should have been the first sign for both of them. Hormones and irritability. He stays glued to his seat, but Kazuya would be lying if he said his body wasn’t now twisted in a way that gave the boy his full attention, and would be lying if he said he didn’t want to halt him in ways that were more than just physical. “What’s the occasion? Or is it simply just because I didn’t give you the answer you wanted to hear? I don’t care what you turn out to be, Sawamura — is that what you want me to say? Because I thought that was already made abundantly clear.”
There’s a brief flash of hurt on Sawamura’s face before he reins it in, turning his back to the room with suspiciously hunched shoulders and balled fists. “Abundantly? You’re so… I’ve already given you two choices, Miyuki Kazuya! Some of us just need— words and — ugh. Forget it, this Sawamura Eijun will not answer any more of your thoughtless questions,” Sawamura barks, and Kazuya gapes. “Good night!”
He’s out the door before Kazuya even knows it, leaving no trace that he was ever even here besides the pillow he threw back on Kazuya’s bed in his passionate escape. Maybe if he’s lucky, he can catch the notes of Sawamura’s shampoo and conditioner lingering on the fabric. Instead, he must sit there — stunned — for seconds longer than necessary, reworking the silhouette of Sawamura’s body in his mind, before a sickly-looking Okumura opens the door, confusion evident in his expression.
“Senpai, what did you do?” Okumura narrows his eyes, holding the door open from where he’s ostensibly looking in the direction Sawamura stomped off in, while his other arm shields his stomach protectively from the bowls of rice he undoubtedly just consumed, as if a gust of wind is enough to make him vomit.
“I haven’t got a clue,” Kazuya replies with a sigh and turns back to the scorebook on his desk, but he slides it slightly out of the way for more damning papers. He feels a tension headache coming on, one that could only ever start with the likes of Sawamura.
“Something tells me that’s not even a bit true,” Okumura steps in and sniffs the air, rubbing his full belly with a grimace at the curdling notes in the room. “Whatever you did, you should probably fix it.” he grumbles, harder this time.
“I don’t need an underclassman to be telling me that. There’s nothing you need to be worrying about other than keeping your food down,” Kazuya teases, tongue-in-cheek thoughtful. The Meiji college application swimming before him incoherently as he replays the small banter with Sawamura in his head, trying to pick it apart, figuring out where he might’ve went wrong. Behind him, Okumura rumbles unpleasantly, and his pheromones spike with challenge in the air, but they can barely penetrate the staking claim Kazuya’s scent already has from how long he’s lived in this room. A room that, come spring, will no longer be his, and like Sawamura, he will leave no trace beyond hearsay.
Kazuya ignores Okumura, mindlessly returns to bouncing his leg under the desk, and tries to focus for the umpteenth time that night. But alas, his mind wanders, somehow finding itself back to the undetectable Sawamura over and over again.
__________________________
Kazuya is always looking for Sawamura. Whether it be consciously or subconsciously, the result is always the same:
Kazuya’s eyes wandering the field during drill rotations, or ears pricked indoors, nose tilted up just ever so slightly to waft the breeze for Sawamura’s shampoo, or fingers catching on the southpaw’s discarded glove on the bench, the leather overly scrubbed with balm — it means he couldn’t ever be too far. And if he was, it was never for long.
This, Kazuya concludes, might be his own habit born from necessity.
And whenever he does find him, chatting passionately with Furuya and little Kominato, ignoring his own advice and gulping down bottles of water until his adams apple glistens with it between sprints, or even lounging in Kazuya’s room like he had been, flipping pages in his cheesy manga with an equally giddy expression on his lit cheeks, something in Kazuya’s chest clicks into place.
It feels a lot like relief, and maybe something a little more, something else too heavy and endearing to name, that has Kazuya anxiously wiping his clammy palm on his shirt, before using the same hand to rap his knuckles against the wood of Room 5’s door with his glove wedged under his armpit.
Unsurprisingly, Kuramochi opens it a wedge, likely having smelt Kazuya’s approach beforehand, and then opens it wider and steps aside with a grumble.
Kazuya stays rooted on the concrete, though, because he doesn’t need to step all the way inside to see the way Sawamura is a sulking lump in bed, unable to recognize the shift of additional pheromones in the air. These small differences in their lives, in their biology, make navigating the world completely different. Kazuya has long since learned to swallow the uncomfortable knot that curls in his throat as a result. It somehow keeps forming, as a reminder, and again, Kazuya feels uneasy.
“Oi, Bakamura,” Kuramochi hisses, clearly unhappy to have been interrupted from whatever he was doing. “You’ve got a visitor.”
And with that, Sawamura lifts his head and looks over the edge of his bunk, straight at Kazuya. In real time, he watches Sawamura’s face shift.
“Miyuki Kazuya!” Sawamura yells at full volume, startling the young Asada into knocking his head into the bunkbed over his desk, eyes and mouth wide in surprise. “You actually came!”
“Doubting me now?” Kazuya purses his lips and leans on the door frame, nearly misses it by a few inches, but rights himself on his feet flawlessly either way.
Kuramochi snorts and rolls his eyes, “You coming in, or are you just gonna stand out there like a weirdo?”
“Actually, I just came to pick up Sawamura for a little game of catch,” Kazuya supplies shortly, trying to reel back his laughter when Sawamura’s figure immediately climbs over the edge of his bunk with a strangled noise of passion, not entirely unlike a spider spurred into action. Or maybe a cute little monkey, ready to steal someone’s goods.
“This late?” Kuramochi levels them both a suspicious look. Sawamura ignores it, though, already at the genkan and pulling on the exact same pairs of socks he tugged on when he left Kazuya’s room, his black glove strangled under his armpit. As Kazuya suspected, the hole in his sock is stretched larger at his heel than before.
“Miyuki Kazuya owes me!” Sawamura rights himself, cheeks alive and hair flying every which way. This time, when Kazuya breathes, it’s easier to play it off as an exasperated sigh that is sure to convince even someone as perceptive as Kuramochi. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
__________________________
Instead, Kazuya pulls Sawamura towards the vending machines and crowds him against the air vent until Sawamura has no choice but to hop up onto it for a seat. Kazuya clambers between his spread thighs, divests them both of their gloves, and clasps the back of Sawamura’s neck with a force so possessive he’d never admit to.
“Senpai—” Sawamura blinks with surprise, and Kazuya vanquishes the two seconds it’d take to have the boy bite a complaint with that short fuse of his, and kisses him.
Kazuya’s fingers circle his nape, feeding off the steady warmth that creeps down Sawamura’s cheeks, pinky running over the unreceptive patch of skin that would normally be raised had he ever presented. Sawamura relaxes in his hold, letting Kazuya take hold of his nonexistent scruff like he always does.
It’s a peculiar thing — a learned behavior that Sawamura voluntarily leaned into. Maybe he does it for Kazuya’s sake, curving into the reflexes that an omega would, leaving themselves open and pliant for the taking. Yet, on the other hand, he has no idea how Sawamura would know to do such a thing. The last time he’d kissed anyone like this was when he and Mei snuck under the bleachers as kids. He recognizes the same bonelessness in Sawamura as he did in Mei, then. But as far as Kazuya’s knowledge goes, Sawamura’s romantic excursions are little to none. Sawamura will nip and bite at his lips challengingly, daringly — will push and pull and tug for dominance like the champion he is — but his pelvis would shift, opening up, back curving as if ready to posture for an alpha at any moment. If given the chance. If Kazuya ever asked him to. He’d give himself willingly, as he does now.
It only serves to confuse Kazuya further — does Sawamura do it for his sake? Is it truly learned, or the first creeping notes of his instinct? Truly willing, unwilling?
Sawamura’s hand thumbs at his cheek, and he sighs against Kazuya’s lips, sensing his distraction. Kazuya’s attention swims back when Sawamura’s tongue brushes the seam of his lips, a gentle request, until Kazuya opens for him. With one hand on his nape, the other slides over Sawamura’s hip and spreads across the plane of his lower back. The boy makes an encouraging noise against him, and their lips move against one another in the quiet outdoors. Kazuya can feel Sawamura’s erection poke against his stomach — but they can’t do this here, not now.
Kazuya breaks the kiss, and Sawamura whines in complaint. Never mind that he’s tenting in his sweats all the same, his pheromones clouding the area of the vending machines. He’s only a bit sorry for the next person who will be pinching their nose while shoving yen into the machine, having known what transpired here.
Nevertheless, he yields, “I didn’t bring you out here for this, Bakamura.” Kazuya adjusts himself in his pants to be a little more comfortable.
“Could’ve fooled me,” Sawamura sighs, pink settling high on his cheeks. Kazuya almost wishes he hadn’t pulled away — and, really, he could nudge back for more. Sawamura would let him. With the way his lips ache, with the way Sawamura’s shine with spit, Kazuya is too weak to resist. “So, I guess that means you aren’t actually taking me to throw either, are you?”
Kazuya grins and shakes his head.
Sawamura sucks in a hiss through his teeth and turns his head away, “You’re horrible, no good—”
“Nuh-uh. I came to apologize.”
“...You buttered me up just for that?” Sawamura looks at him in disbelief, hesitantly leaning back on his hands to put space between their upper bodies. Kazuya rests his own on Sawamura’s thighs, fixing his gaze on him. Sawamura seems to recognize the gesture for what it is and doesn’t try to escape, frowning.
“Well, you did tell me to come get you if I wanted to,” Kazuya shrugs, struggling to keep the eye contact. “So here I am.”
“Okay…” Sawamura’s frown deepens.
Kazuya’s confidence is spilling through his fingers like sand. He’s not good at this. Talking. But he’s trying to get better. “I meant what I said earlier. About—about not caring what you turn out to be. I… probably shouldn’t, um, have said it like that, but I really did think, maybe, you already knew… y’know… about where I stand on that. It bothered me that we weren’t on the same page. Sorry—for making you feel like I wasn’t taking you seriously. If you felt that way.”
Sawamura is watching him, mouth pressing together. Kazuya feels the heels of his cheap sneakers hook around the backs of Kazuya’s knees, keeping him there, an encouraging embrace. A small win. A step in the right direction. He swallows and slowly continues, “I’ll be there to help you through it. Whenever it happens. Whatever happens. You have my word.”
At that, Sawamura releases a shaky breath, lashes batting, “You mean it? Even when you’re at Meiji?”
“I didn’t get accepted yet,” Kazuya reminds him.
“You’re evading me again. You got scouted. You’re committed.”
“I am,” Kazuya thumbs the lining of Sawamura’s shorts, picking at a loose thread, sweeping his finger over his tan lines. “But I still need to meet their academic requirements. You do, too. So work hard, Bakamura, if you really want to follow me. Don’t let me chain you down, though. If—if you don’t, then, even if I’m at Meiji, and you’re, let’s say, all the way in Osaka. I’d still be there. By your side.”
To himself, Sawamura nods, before shifting so he’s closing the distance between them. No longer driving a wall between them. Kazuya swallows quietly when Sawamura slides his hands onto his shoulders, golden eyes admiring his physique. Kazuya thinks that maybe Sawamura is about to kiss him again, but instead, the pitcher pauses.
“To be honest, I’m kinda scared,” Sawamura’s admission seems to trouble him, his brows knitting together and corners of his mouth turning downward. “This would have been more convenient when I was — I dunno — younger, I guess? But it feels like I’m running out of time, Miyuki-senpai, and at the rate I’m going—”
“Sawamura,” Kazuya chides him, grabbing his elbows for support, pulling them higher until Sawamura can embrace Kazuya’s neck. Kazuya’s hands fall to Sawamura’s sides, and he knocks his forehead into his. Sawamura grunts with a little ow. “Eijun. You’re only seventeen right now. You have so much time ahead of you — so much. And to be honest—well, can I be honest?”
Sawamura nods, lowering his gaze to his lap.
“I kind of envy that part of you,” Kazuya squeezes his sides when Sawamura pulls away to retort. “Wait, listen to me. I—I can’t really explain it, but ever since presenting, I’ve only ever seen people navigate on the best interest of their instincts. Because that’s all they’ve ever known, for the majority of their life. They smell fear, anger, sadness—but you - you’re,” Kazuya inhales. This is the most honest he’s ever been with Sawamura before. His face is burning like crazy. He hopes no one is listening from around the corner, because then he’ll be dunked on later for whipping up to one of the sappy shoujo’s that Sawamura reads. But God, it is worth it for the look on his face. If anyone deserves sappy honesty, it’s Sawamura. He no longer deserves an evasive partner. Kazuya thinks, as he glimpses at the last two years with his kouhai, that it is the one thing Sawamura doesn’t need to wring himself dead to achieve, like he did just to get that number on his back. “You don’t have to deal with any of that. At least right now. You’ve only ever known kindness and passion. You lead with your heart. And you’re so damn sure of making yourself known with that loud mouth of yours—”
“Jerk,” Sawamura huffs, but he’s red in the face, arms pulling away from around his neck to hook his fingers into the neckhole of Kazuya’s shirt, tugging him forward.
“—but at the same time, I can’t wait for the day you present. I can’t wait to smell you. I can’t wait for you to smell me. To make you mine — however that may be. Even if, you know, you turn out to be… I’ll be there,” Kazuya blushes, their noses brushing.
“Really?” Sawamura bites his lip carefully. Kazuya nods, no longer trusting his voice on the precipice of a crack. He’s already spoken too much, but he thinks any amount of effort is worth it for the way Sawamura’s eyes sparkle with happy wonder. “You’re an unexpectedly romantic guy, Miyuki Kazuya,” Sawamura hisses through his teeth. “When you want to be, at least.”
“Don’t count on it again any time soon,” Kazuya circles his arms around Sawamura’s waist and pulls him flush against him. Sawamura folds into him instantly, burying his face in his neck. Kazuya can feel his smile against his skin, and his heart squeezes. “Do you feel better?”
“A bit,” Sawamura hums, a warm puff against Kazuya’s skin. The puff of air comes again, and in his arms, Sawamura’s lungs inflate. Kazuya realizes then that he’s trying to smell him. It’s a fruitless endeavor.
“Only a bit? Seems I’m failing my job as a partner, huh?” Kazuya chuckles, pouring out his scent in wailing increments despite it all. “I’m sorry.”
“It sucks that I can’t stay mad at you for long. I blame that distractingly handsome face of yours,” Sawamura’s hand is in Kazuya’s hair now, cupping the back of his head, winding his fingers through the fine strands. “Though, I’ll feel a lot better if you kiss me again.”
“Demanding,” and Kazuya does.