Chapter Text
The practice was the same as everyday in December. Cold air. Stiff hands. The dull rhythm of pitch and swing echoing across the empty field.
Kuramochi dug his cleats into the batter’s box, rolling his shoulders. “C’mon, Bakamura,” he called, bat resting loose on his shoulder.
Behind the plate, Miyuki gave the sign and Eijun nodded once. He pitched, the ball came in sharp, fast, almost too good. Kuramochi’s instincts kicked in before thought could catch up. He swung.
The impact was violent. A flat, awful crack that didn’t sound like a normal hit. Miyuki’s breath stopped when he saw the ball screaming straight back up the middle.
“EI—!”
The sound of it hitting the pitcher’s head was dull and sickening, like something breaking that shouldn’t. Eijun folded, without a shout, without a stumble. He dropped to the ground.
Kuramochi’s bat slipped from his hands and hit the dirt with a hollow clatter. “…Eijun?”
No answer. Eijun laid sprawled on the mound, unnaturally still, face half-turned into the frozen ground.
“TIME OUT!” someone yelled, voice cracking.
Miyuki tore off his mask and ran, spikes skidding as he slid to his knees beside him, but Eijun still didn’t move. The cold bit through his pants, but Miyuki didn’t feel it. He felt nothing except the horrible, screaming awareness that the pitcher wasn’t reacting to him. “Sawamura,” he said.
Too quiet. He leaned closer, eyes searching Sawamura’s face desperately, like if he stared hard enough, he could force him to blink, because Eijun’s eyes were open. That was the worst part. They stared at nothing, glassy and unfocused, like he wasn’t really there anymore.
“Sawamura,” he repeated, louder. The younger boy didn’t flinch. Didn’t even groan.
“Oh no,” Kuramochi whispered, backing out of the box like his legs didn’t belong to him anymore. “No, no, no—”
“Miyuki, don’t touch him,” coach Ochiai warned, walking closer.
Miyuki didn’t hear it. “You tripped before,” Miyuki went on, anger bleeding into his voice like it could cover the fear. “You always bounce back, so—” His voice cracked. “So get up.”
He grabbed at Sawamura’s sleeve, just barely, fingers brushing fabric.
“Don’t—!” Kataoka shouted.
Miyuki ignored them. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?!” the catcher yelled, losing control completely now. “You can’t just lie there! You don’t get to scare everyone like this!” His hands were shaking violently.
“Call an ambulance,” someone yelled, too quickly. Too sharp.
Kuramochi stood frozen, looking at the scene. “I—I just swung,” he said hoarsely. “I didn’t—I wasn’t aiming—” No one answered him.
Miyuki hovered over Eijun, hands shaking as he fought the instinct to grab him. “What the hell are you doing?!” he shouted.
Heads turned. No one breathed.
“You don’t just—!” His voice cracked, sharp and ugly in the frozen air. “You don’t just lie there! Get up, Sawamura!”
Kuramochi had gone pale, one hand clamped over his mouth. “I—” he tried to say. He didn’t finish. The shortstop doubled over violently, gagging and vomited onto the dirt beside the field.
The sound was wet. Harsh. Human. It cut straight through Miyuki’s spiraling thoughts. Someone shouted his name. Another player rushed forward, then stopped, unsure whether to help him or Sawamura.
Kuramochi dropped to his knees, retching again, shoulders shaking uncontrollably. “I—I hit it—” he sobbed between gasps. “I didn’t hit it clean, I didn’t mean to—!”
That was when Miyuki’s control shattered. “Hey,” he said again, but now his voice was even thiner, more strained. “You see this? You’re freaking everyone out.”
His hand hovered inches above Sawamura’s shoulder again. “Move! Say something! You’re fine, right? You always are you fucking idiot, so stop messing around!”
Sawamura didn’t even blink. The silence after Miyuki’s shouting was unbearable.
“Miyuki,” someone said quietly. “Stop.”
But Miyuki wasn’t done. “You think this is funny?!” he yelled, voice breaking completely now. “You don’t get to scare everyone like this—!”
But Eijun stared through him and Miyuki’s throat closed. “Say something,” he begged, the shout collapsing into desperation. “Yell at me. Laugh. Call me an idiot. Do something!”
Nothing.
“You don’t get to do this,” Miyuki whispered. “You don’t get to make Mochi cry like that.”
Kuramochi reached them, dry-heaving now, tears streaming freely as he curled into himself. “I’m sorry, Eijun,” Kuramochi choked. “I’m sorry—I swear I didn’t—!”
Miyuki squeezed his eyes shut and the silence swallowed him whole.
“Miyuki.” Coach Kataoka’s voice was a warning.
Miyuki didn’t hear it. “You’re the one who said you wanted the mound,” Miyuki shouted again at the pitcher, tears blurring his vision now. “You don’t get to quit on it! You don’t get to quit on us!” His breath hitched. “—you don’t get to—”
Hands grabbed his shoulders hard. “Miyuki.”
He twisted violently. “Let go of me!”
Coach Kataoka yanked him backward with brutal force, dragging him away from Eijun until Miyuki stumbled, nearly falling. “That’s enough!” Kataoka roared.
The field went dead silent.
Miyuki twisted violently, trying to break free. “Let go! He needs to wake up—!”
Kataoka hauled him back another step, planting himself firmly between Miyuki and the mound.
“Pull yourself together!” he shouted, voice cutting through the field like a blade. “This is not about you!”
Miyuki froze. The words hit harder than any blow.
Kataoka didn’t lower his voice. “Yelling won’t help him. Touching him could make it worse. If you can’t control yourself, get away from the field.”
Miyuki’s chest heaved, hands trembling openly now, eyes wild. “But he’s not moving!” he shouted back. “Can’t you see that?!”
“I can,” Kataoka snapped, grip tightening painfully. “And that is exactly why you will stop.”
Miyuki’s breath came in sharp, broken gasps. “I was catching,” he said weakly, like a confession. “I called the pitch.”
Kataoka pulled him closer, voice low but merciless. “Then pull yourself together,” he said. “Your panic will not help him.”
Miyuki shook violently. “What if—” His voice broke completely. “What if he doesn’t wake up?”
The words hung there and Miyuki looked past the coach. Sawamura was still there. Still unmoving. Still terrifyingly quiet. The field felt too big. Too empty. The cold suddenly unbearable.
Furuya stood stiff near the dugout, fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.
“He’s not breathing wrong,” someone muttered.
“His chest is moving, right?”
“Why isn’t he saying anything?”
Kuramochi’s laid next to Eijun on the dirt. “Get up,” he whispered. “C’mon, Eijun. You always get up.”
Minutes crawled by.
“The ambulance should be here soon,” a manager said, voice shaking. “They said not to touch him, Kuramochi-senpai.” So he didn’t. Kuramochi and the rest of the team just watched. Watched Sawamura lie there in the dirt, steam barely rising from his breath, his body terrifyingly still.
Miyuki stayed kneeling until his legs went numb, eyes never leaving Sawamura’s face. “You’re not allowed,” he murmured. “Not like this. Not during practice.”
The siren finally broke the silence and Kuramochi flinched like he’d been struck.
As the medical staff rushed in and carefully stabilised Sawamura’s head, Kuramochi staggered back another step, like the distance might undo what he’d done. “I hit it,” he said again, quieter this time. “I hit it.” No one blamed him and that somehow made it worse for him.
The moments crawled by in agony. Eijun didn’t move, didn’t blink, didn’t react when medical staff blocked him from view.
Miyuki stood rigid behind Kataoka, fists clenched so hard his nails cut into his palms. He couldn’t see the pitcher anymore and that terrified him even more. As the stretcher was lifted and Miyuki took an involuntary step forward.
“No,” Kataoka said sharply, holding him back. “You stay.” Coach Kataoka’s hand came down on his shoulder again, heavy and grounding, because the catcher looked like he might collapse completely.
“Enough,” Kataoka said quietly this time. “You did what you could.”
Miyuki shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “I didn’t.”
As the stretcher rolled toward the ambulance, a small figure pushed through the frozen crowd.
“Move.” Rei-chan’s voice cut through the noise, sharp and unwavering.
She was already pulling on her coat, eyes locked on the pitcher, expression tight but controlled. “I’m going with him,” she said flatly.
A coach hesitated. “Re—”
“He’s a minor,” she snapped back. “I’m going.” No one argued.
She climbed into the ambulance without hesitation, one hand gripping the rail as she settled beside the stretcher. She looked down at Sawamura’s face, pale against the white padding and her jaw tightened.
“You’re not allowed to disappear, ace,” she muttered under her breath. “Not after coming this far.”
Miyuki took an unsteady step forward. “Re—”
She looked up at him for a second, her gaze was sharp, resolute and unbearably sad. “I’ll call,” she said. “Stay here.”
Then the doors slammed shut. The siren wailed. The ambulance pulled away, red lights flashing against the gray winter sky. And Seidou was left behind.
Kuramochi finally collapsed fully, forehead hitting the dirt as a sob tore out of him, loud and broken. “I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m so sorry—!”
Miyuki didn’t move. He stood there long after the ambulance disappeared, staring at the empty space where the pitcher had been.
The mound looked wrong without him. Too empty. Too quiet. Winter training didn’t just end that day. Something else did too.
The sky was dark now, winter pressing its cold fingers into every corner of the campus. The team had gathered in the locker room, shoulders hunched, silence stretching between them like a weight. No one had moved much for hours since the ambulance left. Not Miyuki. Not Kuramochi. Not Furuya. Everyone was too frozen, too raw.
Then the door opened and Rei-chan stepped in, coat still damp from the snow, eyes sharp and tired. She closed it behind her with a soft click, and the room went even quieter. “Everyone… sit down,” Rei said, voice low, firm, but tired. “I have updates from the hospital.”
Miyuki’s eyes snapped to hers immediately, chest tight. Kuramochi’s hands were trembling, knuckles white against the bench. Furuya sat rigid, staring at nothing.
Rei took a deep breath. “Sawamura-kun… he’s stable for now. He’s in an induced coma to reduce swelling in his brain. The doctors are monitoring him constantly.”
Miyuki’s breath hitched. “Coma?” His voice was small, fragile. “He… he’s alive, right?”
“Yes,” Rei said firmly. “But… the tests show that he sustained an injury to his left eye. We won’t know the full extent until he wakes up. It’s possible that, at worst, he could lose sight in that eye.”
The words hit the team like a punch to the gut. Kuramochi gasped, covering his mouth with shaking hands. “He… he could be blind?”
Rei nodded slowly. “We don’t know yet. That’s why the doctors have him sedated. Any stress right now could make things worse. They need to wait until he’s fully awake to understand the damage.”
Miyuki’s hands clenched into fists, trembling violently. “Wait… wait, so he might—he might never see out of his left eye?” His voice broke, anger, panic and guilt all tangled together.
“It’s possible,” Rei said quietly, but firmly. “But they don’t know for sure yet. And that’s why we have to let them work. Any panic, any interference… could hurt him more. Right now, all we can do is wait and be ready for him when he wakes.”
Kuramochi sank to the floor, knees tucked under his chin. “I hit it,” he whispered between gasps. “I hit him straight back. If I hadn’t swung—”
“No,” Miyuki said sharply, voice breaking. “It wasn’t your fault. None of this is. Stop saying that!”
Rei stepped closer, resting a hand lightly on the bench. “I know this is terrifying,” she said softly. “But right now, your panic doesn’t help him. Sawamura-chan… he’s counting on you to stay steady. As much as you can, at least.”
The team remained frozen in silence. Kuramochi still sobbed quietly. Miyuki whispered brokenly to himself, “…Not like this… not like this…”
Outside, the winter sky had darkened completely. The snow fell silently, indifferent. Inside, the fear, guilt and uncertainty filled the room like a physical weight.
The hallway outside the ICU felt impossibly still, almost as if the world itself were holding its breath, despite nurses and doctors filling the hallway the next afternoon.
Four boys pressed themselves against the glass of Eijun’s room. Through the window, they could see him lying on the hospital bed, pale and still, tubes and wires attached to every corner of his body. Monitors beeped rhythmically, each sound sharp in the quiet corridor. His chest rose and fell slowly, mechanically, as if each breath had to be forced.
No one spoke. Miyuki, Kuramochi, Furuya, Haruichi, they just stared, frozen. The usual energy, the teasing, the small arguments, they were gone, replaced with a cold, heavy silence.
Footsteps echoed from the end of the hallway. A man and a woman approached.
“Boys,” the father said softly, his voice careful but carrying authority. “You are Eijun’s teammates, right? You look familiar.”
The boys straightened, instinctively. Miyuki stepped forward first, jaw tight. “Y-yes, Sawamura-san.”
The mother gave a small, tired smile, though her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. “Thank you for coming,” she said. Her gaze drifted through the glass to her son, motionless on the bed. “We… we need your help. Could you gather his things for us, please? Pack up his room and his belongings. It would mean a lot.”
The boys blinked, stunned.
The mother’s voice softened. “I know this is sudden… but the doctors recommended he recovers quietly in Nagano. Away from the city, away from noise and stress. He needs peace to heal properly.”
Kuramochi swallowed hard, voice barely audible. “I… understand…”
The mother nodded and then, as if the thought had suddenly struck her, she added, “You know… my son always spoke so highly of all of you. He talked about each of his teammates like you were the most important people in his life. And… he gave you all those funny nicknames.”
Her eyes softened, but a tremor ran through her voice. “He always talked about a Tanuki… then, there was Cheetah and Polar Bear and one poor boy was called Pudding-senpai I think… and so many more… and he loved to make jokes about each of you, endlessly. He… he cared about you so much.”
The boys froze, each of them swallowed by memories they hadn’t realised until now, were the only thing they could hold onto.
The mother glanced at them gently. “I just… wanted you to know. Even if he can’t say it right now, even if he’s asleep… he thinks of you. He’s always thinking about his team.”
The boys finally nodded, wordlessly, still stunned by the weight of her words, by the vivid image of Eijun laughing at his own ridiculous nicknames, the boy they knew now rendered silent and fragile behind glass. Through the window, Eijun remained motionless, breathing slow and steady, entirely out of reach. And in that moment, every one of them felt the full weight of what had happened and how small, helpless, and terrified they truly were.
The ride back to Seidou was quiet. Rei-chan drove steadily, hands gripping the wheel, eyes focused on the road ahead.
Next to her, Miyuki sat rigid, staring out the window, hands clenched in his lap. He didn’t speak, didn’t even glance at the others. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths. Every memory from the ICU, the monitors, the tubes, Eijun’s still face pressed down on him, relentless. Kuramochi slumped against the door in the backseat, head resting on the window, shoulders trembling. He let out soft, broken hiccups from time to time, trying not to cry too loudly, but the occasional whimper escaped anyway. His fingers flexed and twitched on his knees, as if he wanted to grab something, anything, to fix the impossible. Furuya and Haruichi sat stiffly, staring straight ahead.
Rei glanced in the rearview mirror once, just briefly. “I know it’s hard,” she said quietly, voice calm but firm, “All we can do now is stay steady. Keep going. Be steady.”
Miyuki’s gaze didn’t leave the window. “…How can anyone stay steady?” His voice was low, almost a whisper, raw with guilt. “…He’s lying there, Rei-chan… he’s… he could lose his eye and never play again… and I called that pitch…”
Kuramochi shifted slightly, muffled sobs escaping. “I… I hit it… if I hadn’t swung…”
Rei let out a quiet sigh. “None of you did this on purpose,” she said firmly. “Sawamura-chan is tough. And right now, the doctors are doing everything to help him. Blaming yourselves doesn’t change anything.”
Miyuki pressed a hand against his forehead, breathing unevenly. Kuramochi curled slightly in his seat, silently shaking. The car moved through the dark streets, headlights cutting through the winter night. Streetlights flickered past, each one illuminating the tired, fearful faces of the boys for a brief moment. There were no jokes, no chatter, no music. Just the steady hum of the engine and the soft, heavy breathing of the three boys behind her. None of them knew how long it would be until Eijun woke up. None of them knew what they would see when he did.
The hallway outside the dorm rooms was quiet. The sun had long set and only the faint hum of the heating system filled the empty corridors.
Miyuki, Kuramochi, Haruichi and Furuya knelt on the floor, sorting through Eijun’s belongings. Clothes were folded as carefully as their trembling hands would allow. His baseball gear was stacked neatly beside them, his cap placed on top of the pile like a small, silent reminder of him. The rest of the team had gathered around the hallway, leaning against the walls or standing in awkward clusters, watching. No one said anything at first.
Finally, a voice broke the silence. “What are you doing?”
Kuramochi didn’t look up. He kept folding a pair of Eijun’s cleats into a bag. “Packing,” he said quietly, voice rough from the sobs he’d been holding back. “His parents… they’re taking him back to Nagano.”
Okumura stepped closer, confused, eyes wide. “Back… to Nagano?”
Mochi nodded, still focused on the pile of belongings in front of him. “The doctors said it’s better for him to recover there. Quiet, without noise, where he can rest properly.”
The hallway remained silent, except for the soft rustle of clothes and the faint shuffle of footsteps as the team watched their ace’s life reduced to piles of carefully packed things. The silence stretched. Outside, the wind rattled against the windows, indifferent to the tension and grief inside the room.
Eijun blinked rapidly, his head felt heavy, like it was filled with fog and every sound seemed distant, muted and wrong. A voice. A hand on his arm.
“Eijun? Can you hear me?” He squinted. Faces. Two familiar faces, close. His parents.
“Okasan… Otosan?” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper and it sounded strange even to him.
“Yes, Eijun,” his mother said softly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. “You’re awake. It’s okay. You’re okay.”
His father’s hand gripped his shoulder gently. “We’re right here, son. Don’t try to move too much yet.”
Eijun’s chest rose and fell unevenly. The room smelled like antiseptic and he heard machines peeping loudly. Confusion twisted in his stomach. “Where…? Where am I?” he croaked.
“You’re in the hospital,” his mother said. Her voice trembled slightly, but she forced a smile. “You were hurt… seriously hurt, but you’re gonna be okay.”
Eijun tried to take a deep breath, but it made his head pound harder. He closed his eyes briefly, letting the voices anchor him. His mother’s hand squeezed his, his father’s grip steady at his shoulder. Slowly, the fog inside his head began to thin just a little. After a moment, a knock sounded at the door. A man in a white coat stepped in, clipboard in hand.
“Hello, Sawamura-kun,” the doctor said gently, moving closer. “I’m Dr. Saito. I just need to take a look at your eye, okay?”
Eijun’s heart skipped a beat. His mother squeezed his hand. His father leaned slightly closer.
“Don’t worry,” Dr. Saito continued. “We’ll be very careful. I just need to see how your eye is doing and then we’ll know what the next steps are.”
Eijun swallowed, the dryness in his mouth making it feel impossible. “Okay,” he whispered.
The doctor pulled a small light closer and carefully peeled off the bandaid over his eye. Eijun flinched instinctively. He could feel every nerve in his face tense.
“Try to relax,” Dr. Saito said calmly. “I’m just going to look. Nothing will hurt.”
Dr. Saito’s light hovered over Eijun’s left eye, gently lifting Eijun’s eyelid. “What can you see?” he asked gently, his voice steady but careful.
Eijun blinked rapidly, trying to focus, but the world remained… black. Nothing. “I—I can’t…” His voice cracked, small and panicked. “I can’t see!”
His chest tightened. Panic surged through him like fire. He tried to lift his hand, touch his eye, but it felt strange, foreign, as if the part of him that should see had disappeared.
“Eijun, calm down,” his mother said softly, placing both hands on his shoulders. “It’s okay… we’re here.”
His father leaned closer, voice low and firm. “Breathe, Eijun. Listen to us. You’re okay. You’re still with us.”
But Eijun couldn’t stop shaking. “No! I—I can’t see anything! What if it’s gone? What if—what if it’s gone forever?!”
Dr. Saito remained calm, crouching slightly to be level with him. “It’s all right to be scared,” he said gently. “I know it’s frightening, but we need to stay calm and patient. Right now, it’s too soon to know exactly what the long-term effects will be.”
Eijun’s hands shook violently. “I… I can’t… I can’t…”
His mother gripped his hand tighter, bringing it to her lips. “You can, Eijun. Just breathe with me.”
Dr. Saito carefully guided Eijun’s hand down from his face. “I need you to relax for me, Eijun-kun.”
Eijun’s breaths came in quick, ragged bursts. Slowly, shakily, he nodded, still trembling. His mind raced, heart hammering, but the warmth of his parents beside him and the calm presence of the doctor anchored him just enough to keep him from completely spiraling.
Dr. Saito adjusted the light again, prepared to examine the eye, his tone still calm and reassuring. “I know this is difficult to hear, but I need to be honest.”
Eijun’s chest tightened. He gripped the blanket, heart hammering. “…What is it?”
Dr. Saito’s voice was soft, but unwavering. “The injury caused significant damage to the retina and optic nerve. Unfortunately… you will never see out of this eye the way you did before.”
The words hit him like a punch to the stomach. His hands trembled, and he stared at nothing. “N… no,” he whispered, voice breaking. “That… that can’t—”
“I know it’s hard,” Dr. Saito continued, placing a calm hand on Eijun’s shoulder. “We can do everything possible to protect your remaining vision and manage complications. Glasses, protective measures, therapy… but your vision in that eye is permanently impaired. I’m sorry.”
Eijun’s breath caught. He tried to sit up, shaking. “B… but… can I… can I play baseball again?”
Dr. Saito shook his head slowly, gently, almost apologetically. “Not at the level you were before. You won’t be able to track the ball with the same depth perception in the beginning, you'll have a permanent blind spot and every new impact on your head could have implications on your eye. It’s too risky. I know that’s devastating, but pushing it could make things worse.”
The room fell into a heavy silence. Eijun’s parents reached for his hands, but he couldn’t look at them. His chest heaved, panic and grief battling inside him. “I… I can’t,” he whispered finally, voice small and raw. “I… baseball… I can’t—”
Dr. Saito stepped back, giving him space, his tone gentle but firm. “It’s okay to mourn this. It’s okay to be angry, scared, frustrated. But right now, your body needs time to heal. You will need to adapt… and we’ll be here to help you every step of the way.”
Eijun closed his eyes, a shudder running through him. Baseball, the thing that had defined him, was gone, irreversibly. And for the first time, he truly understood how fragile everything he loved could be.
A week had passed since the accident. The hospital room, the machines, the sharp smell of antiseptic, they were already fading in Eijun’s memory. He sat in the passenger seat of the car, a bandage covering his left eye, the seatbelt digging slightly into his shoulder. The world felt off-kilter, too bright and too sharp in one eye. He tilted his head, blinking slowly, trying to adjust.
Beside him, his mother drove steadily, glancing at him from time to time with a mixture of worry and relief. His father rode in the back, quiet, occasionally reaching forward to squeeze Eijun’s shoulder. When they arrived at the house, the familiar smell of home wrapped around him, grounding him slightly. He took a careful step inside, wincing a little at the light streaming through the windows.
His mother came over, hand gentle on his bandaged face. “Eijun… we’re home now,” she said softly. “But we’ll need to go back to the hospital later for a check-up.”
Eijun nodded, voice barely audible. “Okay,” he whispered.
She squeezed his hand, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “I know it’s hard… but we’re right here. Just a quick visit and then you can rest. You’ve done really well this past week.”
Not three hours later, they arrived at the hospital. Eijun moved slowly, careful with his patched eye, leaning slightly on his mother’s arm. His father followed quietly, eyes scanning the room as if expecting something to go wrong.
The doctor greeted them and gestured Eijun onto the examination chair. “Let’s take a careful look,” the doctor said. Her voice was calm, professional, but Eijun noticed the slight furrow in the doctor’s brow. As the doctor examined the eye further, Eijun’s stomach twisted. He blinked rapidly, trying to focus on the doctor’s voice instead of the fear crawling up his chest.
“Hm,” she murmured, adjusting the light and peering more closely. “We'll need to talk to our ophthalmologic surgeon. I’m afraid you’ll need to stay in the hospital for a few more days, Sawamura-kun.”
About ten minutes later, a surgeon explained carefully: “This procedure will clean up some residual damage and reinforce the repair from the first surgery. It’s delicate, but it’s important for protecting your remaining vision.”
Eijun’s stomach twisted. He gripped the sides of the chair. “I… I’m scared,” he admitted quietly, his voice breaking.
His mother reached for his hand. “I know. It’s okay to be scared. You’re brave enough to do this.”
His father added, voice steady, “We’re right here. You’re not doing this alone.”
At noon the next day, Eijun woke in the recovery room, groggy and disoriented, the dull ache behind the bandage worse than the first time. His parents were there instantly, their presence like an anchor.
“You did it,” his mother whispered, brushing his hair back. “All done. You’re okay.”
The next few days were slow, filled with careful rest, medications, and follow-up checks. Eijun’s throat felt dry. He swallowed, trembling. “I… I thought… I thought I could rest at home… just… be normal…”
“You will,” his mother said softly, brushing his hair back. “But your eye comes first. This is the safest way to make sure you heal properly.”
Eijun nodded slowly, chest tight, trying to force himself to breathe. He didn’t like it, not one bit, but with his parents beside him, he felt a fragile thread of security holding him steady.
The school still smelled strange on his second day of rejoining school. The chatter of students echoed off the walls, bouncing around him in a way that made Eijun feel unsteady. Weeks had passed since he’d been in a Seido classroom, weeks filled with hospital rooms, white walls, the constant hum of machines and the dull ache behind his bandaged eye. He hesitated at the threshold, one hand brushing lightly over his cheek bone. His other hand hung limply at his side. Every sound was sharper than it should have been. Every movement of the other students caught in his peripheral vision felt exaggerated, unfamiliar.
Wakana spotted him immediately, standing near the front of the class. She stepped forward, her smile gentle but firm. “Eijun… you look better than yesterday,” she said softly. “Don’t worry, we’ve got you.”
He nodded once, barely. No words came. No expression. He moved like a ghost through the doorway, letting his body carry him to Nobu, who had pulled a chair out for him. His motions were slow, deliberate, almost mechanical. The other students glanced up, whispers passing briefly before they returned to their tasks. Eijun noticed none of it. He dropped into the chair, eye still throbbing faintly, the world off-kilter. The teacher started taking attendance. Names echoed around him, meaningless sounds that barely registered. He blinked, trying to adjust to the brightness, trying to make sense of the familiar yet alien environment.
Nobu leaned slightly closer. “You don’t have to do anything yet,” she whispered. “Just sit. We’ll help you.”
Eijun exhaled slowly, barely audible. A week ago, even a hallway would have felt like too much. Now, he was here. In school. Again. With his friends. Like the last year didn't happen at all.
The evening was quiet in Eijun’s room. The sunlight had faded behind the curtains, leaving soft shadows across the floor. He sat on the edge of his bed, phone pressed to his ear.
“How’s it feel… being back at school?” Chris said, voice cheerful but cautious.
Eijun let out a low, flat sound, more a sigh than a word. “It’s… okay,” he muttered. His tone lacked the usual spark, monotone.
“I mean… it’s a lot, I know,” Chris continued. “You’ve been through hell.”
Eijun nodded faintly, even though Chris couldn’t see it. “Yeah… it’s just… weird. Everyone’s… here. But it’s like I’m not really… here, you know?”
There was a pause on the line, soft breathing, then Chris said quietly, “I get that… I really do.”
Eijun scrolled through his phone, fingers hovering over messages. “I… sent Mochi a message earlier today again. Told him I was visiting school again. He… didn’t reply.” His voice was small, almost flat. “Not even one word.”
Chris was silent for a moment, then spoke gently. “Hey… maybe he’s… just processing it. You know him he… probably doesn’t know how to say it.”
Eijun didn’t answer right away. He pressed the phone closer, fingers gripping it tightly. A lump rose in his throat, and then, suddenly, the dam broke. “I… I feel like… everything’s gone,” he whispered, voice cracking. Then a shaky breath, and he finally let the tears fall. “I can’t… baseball’s gone… Mochi never replies… I—”
“Hey, hey,” Chris interrupted softly, careful, patient. “It’s okay, let it out. I’m here. I hear you. I’m listening.”
Eijun sobbed quietly, the sound small but heavy, echoing in the room. “I thought… I thought I’d be home… I’d see everyone… but it’s… it’s like I’m invisible. Everything’s… everything’s different.”
Chris stayed quiet for a moment, letting him release the grief, the frustration, the fear. “I know… I know it feels impossible right now. But you’re not alone, Eijun. I’m here. And… I’ll come see you. When I’m back in Japan, I’ll visit, okay?”
Eijun’s grip on the phone tightened, tears still streaming down his face. “You… you would?”
Chris’s voice softened. “Of course.”
Eijun’s hands shook around the phone and he let himself cry openly, the confusion, the fear and the frustration all pouring out. “I… I don’t understand, Chris-senpai… everything looks fine… why can’t I see?!”
Chris’s voice was steady, soft, grounding. “We’ll figure it out. One step at a time. You’re not alone in this, Eijun. Not now, not ever. Just… breathe, okay?”
Eijun’s tears hadn’t stopped since he started speaking. He pressed the phone tighter to his ear, voice shaky, broken by sobs. “Can you… please…” he whispered, barely able to get the words out. “Tell me… tell me about your training… everything… just… talk to me… please…”
There was a brief pause on the line. Chris’s voice was calm, soft, deliberate. “Of course, Eijun. I’ll tell you everything. Just… breathe, okay?”
And he did.
Chris started from the beginning, the warm-ups, the drills, the way the sunlight hit the field in the morning. He spoke slowly, vividly, describing the sounds of the field, the feel of the leather against his fingers, the rhythm of the team’s practice. Eijun listened, head resting against the pillow, tears streaking his face. The words painted pictures in his mind. For a moment, he felt almost… there. Almost part of it again.
Chris didn’t rush. He paused to answer Eijun’s broken whispers, laughing softly at his questions, explaining patiently when Eijun couldn’t understand something. By the end, Eijun’s sobs had quieted slightly. His chest still ached, but for the first time in days, he felt… seen. Not by the world around him, but by someone who knew him, who carried a piece of his old life and shared it back, voice and memory guiding him through the darkness.
“Thank you…” Eijun whispered finally, voice hoarse. “Thank you for… telling me.”
Chris’s smile could almost be heard through the phone. “Anytime, Eijun. Anytime. Always.”
The days passed for Eijun like he was moving on autopilot. He walked through the motions, attended classes, went through exercises for his eye, nodded politely to teachers and therapists and let his parents hover over him, barely noticing the hours slipping by. By Thursday afternoon, he was lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, when his phone buzzed with a call from an unknown number.
He picked it up slowly. “Moshi moshi,” he said, voice flat, tired.
“HA! CRAZY BOY!” The voice on the other end exploded like a cannon, and Eijun instinctively pulled the phone away from his ear, eyes widening.
“Ah… this is Yuu’s father,” the man said, chuckling.
Eijun blinked, adjusting. “…Animal-san! Hello! How can this lowly Sawamura Eijun help my Shisho's esteemed otosan?”
The line was silent for two seconds, before Animal broke into booming laughter. “For a TV segment we'll record in Nagano on Saturday, one of our performers dropped out. You can ski, right?” Animal’s voice was loud, energetic, completely unbothered by Eijun’s hesitant tone.
“Of course! This Sawamura Eijun grew up in the Nagano mountains!” Eijun said, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite himself. Animal laughed, loud and unabashed. “…But I’m bli—” Eijun tried to add.
“I know, but that’s not a problem. We need someone who can teach skiing on camera,” Animal interrupted, energetic as ever.
“…Wouldn’t a ski instructor be better?” Eijun suggested cautiously.
Animal laughed again, longer this time. “No, no. That’s not worth it. Ask your parents if it’s okay for me to pick you up Saturday morning and bring you back in the evening.”
Eijun hummed assentingly, still processing the whirlwind energy on the other end.
“Just message me, and if possible, send me your address directly,” Animal added, voice brimming with excitement.
“Okay,” Eijun said, tone small but a little lighter than before. Then, just like that, Animal hung up, leaving Eijun staring at the phone, heart racing. A mix of disbelief and the tiniest spark of something like anticipation curled faintly inside him.
Eijun trudged down the stairs, the weight of the phone still heavy in his hand. His parents were in the living room, his father flipping through a magazine while his mother fussed over some laundry. His grandfather sat nearby, sipping tea quietly.
“Okasan… Otosan… can I… go on Saturday?” Eijun asked, voice quiet but steady. “For a TV thing? Chris' father called me.”
His father’s eyes lit up immediately. “Of course! That’s amazing! We get to meet Animal again?”
Grandfather chuckled, leaning forward. “What a story!”
Eijun’s mother, however, folded her arms, brows knitting. “I don’t know… You just got home. You’re still recovering, Eijun. I don’t like the idea.”
“I… I’ll be careful,” Eijun murmured, shrugging slightly.
His mother sighed at the pitiful view. “I will only agree if I can come with you,” his mother then said firmly.
Eijun’s lips curved into the faintest smile. He pulled out his phone and quickly typed a message to Animal.
Me (17:43): Hi Animal-san, my okasan would like to come along on Saturday. Is that okay?
The reply came almost instantly.
Animal-san (17:44): Having her there is a good idea. We’ll see you both Saturday morning!
Eijun exhaled softly, relief washing over him. He looked up at his parents, showing them the message.
His father clapped his hands together, grinning. “See? Perfect! Everything’s set!”
His mother exhaled, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Alright… we’ll go. But Eijun, you listen to me and be careful. Understood?”
“Yes, okasan,” Eijun said, a little more confident now. For the first time in weeks, the idea of something outside therapy, school and his parents’ constant supervision felt… exciting.
Saturday came quickly. The morning air was crisp, and Eijun’s mother hovered by the door while he waited. A loud, energetic honk echoed from outside and moments later there was a sharp knock. Eijun opened the door.
“CRAZY BOY! Your hair is longer!” Animal bellowed as soon as he saw him, throwing his arms wide in excitement. “Looks great!”
Eijun chuckled softly, shrugging, letting the comment pass over him. His mother gave a small smile, a little amused at Animal’s loud energy.
After about an hour on the road, the car rolled up to the location. Eijun followed Animal and the small production crew to the slope, and he immediately noticed: it was tiny. Barely a hill. More of a gentle incline than a proper run.
Animal bounced on the balls of his feet, excitement radiating in every movement. “All right, Crazy Boy! This is your stage! Don’t worry—it’s just a warm-up slope. Nothing dangerous!”
Eijun looked at the hill and raised an eyebrow. It was barely more than a slope you could walk down. He let out a small, dry chuckle and shrugged. He was briefed quickly by a coordinator. He listened quietly, nodding when asked questions, his expression calm and almost blank. Instructions were clear: ski down this run, follow cues, respond naturally to the camera, and demonstrate basic skills for the segment.
A crew member handed him a helmet and a pair of skis. “Just follow the cues, stay in the camera frame, and have fun,” they said.
Eijun nodded faintly and turned to the production team to introduce himself. “I’m Sawamura Eijun,” he said quietly.
One of the crew members grinned and said, “You’re cute!”
Eijun blinked, tilting his head slightly, unsure what to do with the comment. He shrugged lightly, mumbling, “…thanks, I guess,” his tone flat, giving the impression that compliments were foreign and awkward territory.
Animal clapped his hands together loudly. “Perfect! That’s our Crazy Boy. Let’s make this fun!”
Eijun exhaled softly, taking in the snow, the cameras, and the chaotic energy around him, letting it wash over him as he mentally prepared to ski in front of everyone. He clipped in, adjusted his stance and in a single slow glide, slid down the tiny incline. His movement was controlled, minimal effort, almost like he was going through the motions for himself rather than anyone else.
Animal waved enthusiastically from the side. “Yes! That’s it! Perfect for the camera! Look at you go!”
“Ah! I’m supposed to give you many greetings from Yuu,” Animal added, voice loud and cheerful. “It was actually his idea that I call you.”
Eijun glanced at him, expression flat, saying nothing.
Animal only laughed, as if Eijun’s apathy was part of the fun. “All right, I see how it is. Let’s get to work then, Crazy Boy.”
“AGAIN!”
Eijun slid down slowly the slope again, expression blank, posture stiff. Subdued. Present, but emotionally muted.
Animal bounced alongside him, eyes sparkling. “Hey, Crazy Boy!” he shouted. “Quick question for you.”
Eijun glanced at him briefly. “…Yes?”
“AGAIN!”
“If you’re skiing down a slope and you suddenly realise you forgot your skis at home… how do you stop without… falling?” Animal asked, arms flailing like it was the most serious thing in the world.
Eijun froze mid-slide for a moment, then blinked. “…That doesn't make sense?” he said, deadpan.
Animal gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “WHAT?! Why didn’t anyone ever tell me this before?!”
Eijun’s lips twitched. His shoulders shook slightly. Then, before he could stop it, a real, bright laugh burst out of him, genuine, brilliant, sudden. He slid down the gentle incline, laughing harder, wiping at his eyes with his gloved hand.
Animal threw his arms wide in triumph. “YES! That’s it! Finally! The first laugh of the day!”
Eijun shook his head, chuckling through his laughter and Animal grinned, satisfied.
The laughter had faded, but a faint smile still lingered on Eijun’s face as he stood on the tiny slope for the nth time, skis planted lightly in the snow. A voice interrupted the moment.
“How tall are you exactly?” A production manager stepped closer, clipboard in hand. “And have you ever participated in a TV program before? Any experience on camera?”
Eijun blinked, expression flat. “…I’m 178 cm. And no… I haven’t.”
The manager scribbled notes quickly, clearly thinking ahead. Just then, Eijun’s mother walked up, brows knitting. “Excuse me… why are you asking all of this?”
The manager glanced at her, smiling professionally. “Oh, nothing serious. I just… I have some ideas about how we could use him in other formats, maybe different sketches, segments… things like that. Just exploring possibilities.”
Eijun’s eyes drifted to his right, and there was Animal, standing with his arms crossed, grinning like a small child who had just found a secret treasure.
“…Okay…” Eijun muttered, voice flat but faintly amused, letting the absurdity of the situation sink in.