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There’s not much Nagiharu loves more than baseball.
He loves the snap of his glove, the grit of sand between his teeth. He loves pushing himself, the ache of his arm as he pulls through another pitch. The echo of his pitch sings across the empty field and Nagiharu looks up at his brother.
His heart flutters impossibly as he waits for Aokaze’s approval. He’s so pretty in the summer breeze and Nagiharu’s chest clenches as a quiet smile pulls at the corner of Aokaze’s mouth.
“You learned that on your own, did you?”
“I had help.” His need for approval is like a caged animal. It leaves claw marks on his insides.
Aokaze tilts his head thoughtfully as he turns the ball over in his glove. “I think it’s beautiful.”
Beautiful. He says it like he’s imbuing the ball with it.
Aokaze winds up and throws a pitch back at Nagiharu. The weight of it knocks him back a step. He quickly grabs for the baseball and rolls it around in his hand. He feels Aokaze’s touch, his approval, in the bright red seams of the ball.
There’s not much Nagiharu loves more than baseball–except Aokaze, that is.