Chapter Text
Prologue: Fall
One out. Todoroki Raichi in the batter’s box. Okumura gave him a long look, noting that the hitter maintained eye-contact with Seidou’s pitcher, not once checking the position of his feet upon coming to a stop.
Moodmaking duty among Yakushi’s remaining first- and second-years had fallen upon their second-year trio, with leadoff hitter Akiba speaking more in this match than the previous tournaments combined. Despite losing Ace Sanada, Yakushi High School was still keeping Seidou at one run. Their new first-year pitcher had sharpened his claws. The strong batters at their core brought them here across several called games, almost untouched.
Okumura scanned the bases. Players on first and second. Every base was scoring position with Raichi up at-bat. Last time, he smacked Sawamura’s first pitch and forced the breaking ball in a long line drive. This round, Raichi’s focus rose off powerful shoulders like burning sulfur, a declaration of intent to hit a pitch out of the park. His bright yellow eyes saw and tracked the first two pitches: a revised splitter deep inside the plate, and a high fastball above the strike zone which flew so close, any other batter would have flinched aside.
Raichi hefted his bat.
Okumura called for the third pitch. Four-seam, out low; a pitch primed by the first two balls to feel distant; positioned inside the zone to add a strike. Sawamura’s breath caught in his chest. He knew this pitch sequence. He saw from the highest point on the diamond a vision of Raichi’s bat reaching across the plate, the battle between a fearsome swing against one of the best fastballs in his arsenal. Now?
In the pause, Okumura lifted his mask. Time-out?
Sawamura shook his head. He won’t be fooled there. They’ve studied my battery with Miyuki—that pitch sequence was textbook Miyuki Kazuya—and this is Raichi. He’ll be ready for that.
As the pause grew longer still, Raichi bounced. Wiggling around in the batter’s box was a basic mind game from a hitter to a pitcher. But Raichi didn’t need mind games when his presence in a lineup was enough to lay pressure on opponents familiar with his ability to hit home runs. Simple-minded Raichi was just excited to face Seidou’s new Sawamura-Okumura battery.
A moment passed. Okumura judged a time-out would disrupt the fielders’ focus and readjusted his crouch. He pulled the tab of his two-piece mask under his chin and signed. Raichi batted left; a revised cutter would break into the strike zone from behind.
Sawamura shook his head. He made contact last round.
Okumura hesitated. At the edges of his perception, Sawamura heard Seidou’s fielders reminding him of their readiness, Seidou’s side of the stands cheering for a good pitch, and the crowd murmuring about what was taking the battery so long to decide.
After a look towards Yakushi’s dugout, Okumura made a decision. Revised splitter. Force a grounder, slip it in beneath the bat. He tapped his mitt inside his knee twice: We’ll cut them off here. Then he shifted into position and placed his mitt outside.
Nodding, Sawamura glanced around. This was the Yakushi that put Raichi as the fifth-hole this game and took savage delight in making changes to their batting order. Auburn-haired Takatsu at shortstop met Sawamura’s eye and shifted closer to third. All agreed: they needed the next pitch to be sharp. A setup like this could lead to a double play and close the inning in Seidou’s favour.
Whether it was anticipation, the crowd, or Eijun himself, something was wrong the instant the ball left his fingers. His heart sank even as his heartbeat rose and he spun to yell at the fielders—to give them any warning he could—trusting that Okumura would recognise the weak pitch and shout for the best fielder to receive as soon as the bat made contact. And it did. Raichi’s bat slammed into the ball with a bang that echoed the feeling of Eijun’s heart cracking along the old mended seam of the home run struck in his first year. Eijun felt the ball shooting past his head and into the outfield. He watched Toujou running back. Perfect; it was a perfect shot towards centre field. But one look at the arc shot down his hopes. It was too high, too strong. There was no chance.
“—Home run! Todoroki Raichi hits for 3 RBI! That puts Yakushi High on the scoreboard and they take the lead in what was looking to be a close match!”
“Time!” called Okumura, the sound of his voice a soft roar against the crowd.
Fielders gathered around the mound. Eijun was grinning, impressed despite himself. “Damn, he’s improved his barrel control. He should’ve only sent a pitch like that to outfield. He’s gotten really good.”
Okumura’s voice cut through the admiration. “Are you injured?”
“Huh?”
It occurred to Eijun that the fielders were not silent from shock as he’d assumed. He took in their down-turned mouths, stiffened shoulders. It wasn’t until he looked down and saw his hand trembling over his chest that he understood they were worried.
As soon as it registered, he remembered it again: the terrifying sensations of Todoroki Raichi hitting a home run off him in his first year.
His jersey was soft as it slipped through his fingers.
“It didn’t land,” Eijun answered. His teammates’ worry was justified, whether it be for him or for their future in the Fall Tournament. Yakushi won the battle of hearts. Two points ahead, getting those two points back would be as hard as wrestling back the game’s momentum.
Eijun dropped his hand.
Okumura didn’t break eye-contact.
“Senpai,” said Okumura. “This is the 4th inning. Your pitch count is 41. That wasn’t a bad pitch, but it wasn’t good, either.” He seemed to hesitate over his question, finally asking, “How is your mental state?”
Fine, Eijun wanted to say. I’ll get those points back! Let’s keep playing!
It was the ghost of more than one person asking from his subconscious: ‘How are you going to do that?’
‘What’s the situation?’
‘Next inning, you’re up to bat. Can you get the crucial hit against their defence and ignore their momentum?’
Okumura shifted. “Are you fit to play, senpai?”
I want to play, Eijun bit back, poisonous words that everyone on the mound heard unspoken. He took a deep breath. Looking toward the third-base dugout, he made eye-contact with the coach.
The coach saw him nod stiffly like he was consenting to a death sentence.
“We’re facing Yakushi,” said Sawamura. “They’re strong, and… if I keep playing, we might lose.” Kuki approached the mound, designated as coach’s runner. “We need Furuya.”
“He said it,” whispered Yui, stationed on right field. How much pressure does Sawamura-senpai have to be under to willingly turn over the game?
“This is not my decision as a pitcher,” said Sawamura. “We’re in the semifinals. We need to make the most of every inning and can’t afford any more mistakes!”
One by one, the fielders took in the implications: swallowing and rendered speechless by the force of Sawamura’s energy.
“We’re Seidou, the champions!” Sawamura roared, tossing out his arm into the circle of people, then he thumped his chest as he captured their spirits in. “We won the Fall Tournament last year, against Yakushi! Fielders, Seidou is counting on you to get us another win!”
“Depend on us, Sawamura,” third baseman Kanemaru swore, tapping his glove on Sawamura’s mitt.
“We’ll fill the scoreboard, Eijun,” promised second-base Kominato.
“Let’s hold the score,” said Yuuki, their first baseman.
“Yeah!”
“—Seidou High School has announced a change in players. Replacing pitcher Sawamura is left-field Furuya. Pitcher, Furuya. Replacing left-field...”
“Sawamura-senpai,” Okumura said, in the sliver of time around Furuya switching gloves. “If it was my gamecalling, I—”
“Okumura.” Koushuu swallowed his words at the intensity in Sawamura’s eyes burning brightly under the shadow of a blue Seidou cap. Sawamura added, “I want to be here. I’m frustrated. But I was the one that lost the image of my pitch.” A pitcher that couldn’t see his pitch wouldn’t be able to throw, and they both knew that. “I don’t know what my next pitch might be and I can’t put the burden of making that judgement onto you. Since I’m thinking that way, I’ve already lost my composure. For us to make the next stage… I have to do what’s best for the team. And the best choice right now is to trust you and the fielders and Furuya!”
Koushuu fell silent.
“I understand,” he said, finally, taking the odd stirring in his chest and sealing it away for examination later.
Furuya held his hand out for the ball and Koushuu felt more than saw the two rival pitchers exchange their fighting spirit.
“You can make the most out of it, can’t you, wolf boy?” Sawamura asked before stepping off.
Even when forced into a decision, Sawamura could make a perfect play to Koushuu’s strengths. No matter how it appeared to the crowd, this wasn’t Seidou’s usual strategy of switching in a relief pitcher, but Sawamura’s faith in Koushuu’s ability to spin the situation into a plan they never had. Koushuu gripped his catcher’s mask tighter in one fist.
“I’ll take care of them,” Furuya said.
“You’d better!” Sawamura jabbed his finger at Furuya—
And then, just like that, the toughest and most fragile member of Seidou’s baseball team let his rival replace him.
“His pitch mechanics weren’t wrong, but he still prioritised the team instead of himself,” Okumura murmured.
Furuya joined him in watching Sawamura’s figure, white receding against green grass, the number ‘1’ on their Ace’s back like a lonely finger raised towards the sky. “When Eijun wears that… it looks heavy.”
Someone tapped his shoulder. Furuya turned to see Kominato with a glove over his mouth, pale eyes unreadable as he gave the battery a once-over.
“We’re taking this back,” said Haruichi.
Loud, distinctive cheering rose from the outfield. Sawamura Eijun released a fearsome yell; gone, but never forgotten.
“One out, Furuya!” reminded Eijun, “Burn ’em up with your favourite full force flamethrower!”
“You know he’s thinking about how he’ll never take himself off the mound again?” Haruichi asked Satoru. “That’s why he’s Seidou High School’s Ace and Captain. And that’s why we have to win.”
“He’s amazing,” Satoru agreed, thinking that the ball felt firm today.
“Let’s live,” said his catcher, moving into place by the backstop.
They returned to a game they were two points behind, and the next batter came up.
His knees stinging, Okumura gave his pitcher a sign.