Masatoshi gets the text message just as he's coming into the locker room.
It's not totally unexpected; Mei's been remarkably quiet today, limiting himself to his usual Morning, Masa-san! at an ungodly hour of the morning. Masatoshi didn't answer until nearly lunchtime, just to make a point, and it's been hours since then with his phone still and silent in his pocket. When it does ring he doesn't hear it over the voices around him; it's only the faint vibration against his hip that alerts him to the pending message at all. He pauses before stripping off his shirt, fishes his phone out to glance at the screen, and when he sees the backlit display of Narumiya Mei as the sender he's tapping the message open without thought.
The wall of text is alarming, initially; it certainly serves to pull all Masatoshi's attention to focus on the screen in front of him. But then he actually makes sense of the characters, parses the odd rhythm to the shapes, and huffs himself into almost-a-smile as he realizes what he's looking at. It's just one phrase repeated over and over, I miss you set into a framework of heart emojis like bricks in mortar. It spans Masatoshi's entire screen, like Mei is trying to make up for the distance of a text message with sheer quantity, and Masatoshi hadn't intended to respond but there's an ache in his chest, pressure settling just under his ribcage like a familiar weight coming home to stay. He presses his thumb against the keys - I miss you too, absent any of Mei's characteristic emojis - and sets his phone in his locker as soon as he's hit Send, before Mei has a chance to distract him further.
It's a reasonable goal. Without the phone in his pocket there's nothing new for Masatoshi to think about until practice wraps up with the sun setting. But he still turns the message over in his head, cradling it in the back of his thoughts like a fire offering warmth to cold-numbed hands, and he might feel a prickle of guilt for his distraction but it's impossible to shed the thought or the ache in his chest, impossible to forget the bittersweet tug at his heart like there's a magnet beckoning him elsewhere, calling him home. Finally practice is over, sooner than Masatoshi expected and feeling far later; he changes with deliberate slowness, focusing on remaining unhurried while he strips, and showers, and dresses himself in his own clothes again. It's only then that he reaches for his phone and turns it around to see the flashing light for a pending message he knows is there. This one has slightly more content, variants on the original theme but with a little more detail; Masatoshi only skims it before he presses the call button and brings the phone to his ear.
Mei picks up halfway through the second ring. "Masa-san!"
"Mei," Masatoshi says. The locker room is empty; he shuts the door to his own, checks to make sure it's clicked shut before he turns and heads for the exit. "Shouldn't you be at practice?"
"Not today," Mei says. He's chirping the words, hitting a high range like he's on the verge of laughter, like he's speaking on behalf of some unseen audience. "We have a rest day this evening!"
Masatoshi pushes the door to the locker room open, steps out into the warm glow of the evening air. "Mei," he says again, tasting the sound like a warning on his tongue. "What's wrong?"
The line goes silent for a moment. Masatoshi can imagine Mei's forced smile fading, can imagine his frown of surprise at being caught out, as if he thought a few months apart could undo Masatoshi's knowledge of his moods. Then, softer, smaller, much fainter: "I miss you," stripped of the exclamation points and the hysteria of caps lock, spoken so low it's nearly a whisper on the other end of the phone. "I miss you a lot."
Masatoshi can feel his gaze go soft, can feel his expression going far gentler than the sidewalk in front of him will appreciate. "I miss you too," he says, louder than Mei but no less sincerely.
"Can you call me?" Mei asks, talking fast as if Masatoshi is going to refuse him. "At home, from your computer, so I can see you."
Masatoshi's mouth curves on a smile. When he blinks he can feel his eyes burn slightly, as if there's a wind dragging tears to them. "Sure."
"Okay," Mei says, picking up volume along with newfound light under his tone. He sounds happier, warmer; Masatoshi can feel that ache again, the tug against the inside of his chest as he listens to Mei huff himself into focus. "I'm going to take a shower before you call."
"You're fine," Masatoshi tells him, but:
"I'm a mess," Mei insists. "I'll be online in fifteen minutes, I bet I'll beat you anyway." And he's gone, dropping the other end of the line before Masatoshi can tell him that he doesn't care what he looks like, that it's Mei's whole self and not his polished persona that he cares about. He's left to sigh resignation into the flat quiet of the line, to pocket his phone and make the rest of the walk back in peace with his thoughts.
It's a short walk. Masatoshi's in the front door barely ten minutes after Mei hung up on him, and logging into his computer well before the stated fifteen. Mei's icon is logged in but idle; Masatoshi's not expecting a response when he sends the chat request, but he clicks anyway, if only for the satisfaction of beating Mei in the unofficial race. There's a pause, a moment of the screen humming through an attempted call; then, unexpectedly, movement, and the sound of a distant voice hissing "Shit!" as the screen lights up to reveal a bare arm and the inside of an elbow reaching for the keyboard. "Masa-san?"
"Mei," Masatoshi offers by way of confirmation. He's trying not to smile; it's harder than it should be, with the motion of Mei scrambling over the computer on the other side of the connection. There's a pale shoulder, the catch of light on yellow hair, and then Mei himself, leaning in too-close to the camera to blink at the screen. He's not wearing a shirt and there's a towel tossed over still-damp hair; even as Masatoshi watches he lifts a hand to rumple it over the strands in a half-formed attempt at drying them.
"You were too fast," Mei complains as he emerges from the cover of the towel. His skin is glowing damp from his shower; in the blue illumination of the computer screen he looks like he's made of moonlight. "I barely had my pants back on."
"You dared me to race you," Masatoshi says evenly.
"And you hurried to win?" Mei drags his towel off his head, drops it over the back of the chair while he reaches around past the camera. "That's awfully childish of you, Masa-san."
"Mei," Masatoshi growls, familiar irritation rising along his spine, and Mei laughs bright as the camera moves, picking up the laptop so the focus of the lens veers dizzily up over his shoulder and along a collarbone.
"Just a minute," Mei says from off-screen, the edge of the camera bumping his chest as he moves. Masatoshi can see straight down the line of Mei's body to the edge of his jeans, can watch the pace of the other's bare feet on the floor of the hallway. "I'm going to get us some privacy." He's purring the words into suggestion, dipping them deliberately low into teasing innuendo, but Masatoshi doesn't protest; he can hear the strain under Mei's voice as clear as the forced laugh over the top of it, and he doesn't want to add to the other's stress.
It's only a few minutes' wait. Masatoshi can hear Mei shut the bedroom door behind him, can hear the click of a lock distant from the microphone in the computer; the camera swings again with vertigo-inducing speed, and then the view steadies as the laptop lands on a flat surface, the stability leaving Masatoshi looking at the corner of a poster at the foot of Mei's bed while Mei moves in the background, dragging the sheets up and off the mattress so he can climb under them. Another sweep of yellow hair, damp locks coming dangerously close to the laptop camera; and then Mei's face again, absent his smile of before so his expression draws into the weight of exhaustion too familiar for Masatoshi to misidentify. Mei drags at the blankets to pull them up over his shoulders; it's only when the weight of the covers is tucked up almost over his head that he subsides, bracing himself on his elbows and gazing at his computer screen like it's offering salvation.
"What's wrong?" Masatoshi asks.
Mei's mouth twists at the corner, his shoulder dragging up into a shrug. "Nothing's wrong."
"Bullshit," Masatoshi tells him, because he can see the slump of Mei's shoulders, can see the shadows in his blue eyes. "You haven't been sleeping."
"I have," Mei protests, the unhappy softness at his mouth tensing into an irritated frown. "You told me to, you think I wouldn't get enough rest?"
"You look tired." Masatoshi can see the suggestion of dark under Mei's lashes, can see the way his head dips forward like it's too heavy to hold up. "You always push yourself too hard on your own."
Mei ducks his head, huffs a laugh; there's not much volume to it but it sounds sincere, even if Masatoshi can't see his eyes. "I know," he says, and then, on a sudden, choking inhale: "I miss you so much, Masa-san."
"Mei," Masatoshi says, but it's hard to get the name out around the pressure in his chest, and Mei is ducking forward, pressing his forehead against his arms so all Masatoshi can see of him is the tangle of his hair and the slump of his shaking shoulders. "Mei."
"I'm sorry," Mei says, the words lost to the sheets so Masatoshi almost doesn't hear the way they're trembling in his throat, almost misses the hiccuping sob-inhale the other takes. "I'm glad you're doing what you're doing, it's just-"
"I miss you too," Masatoshi tells him, low, rumbling the words so they cut past the hysteria climbing in Mei's throat. Mei goes quiet, lifts his head to the camera; his cheeks are wet, his mouth is trembling, but his eyes are so wide on attention Masatoshi can feel his heart creak under the weight of affection that hits him. When he takes a breath it catches; he has to clear his throat before he can speak. "None of the pitchers here are like you."
Mei's lips tug up into a grin. It's shaky and lopsided, but it's enough to catch some color back into his eyes. "You haven't found a replacement for me yet?"
"No one is as much of a brat as you," Masatoshi tells him, which makes Mei hiccup a sob that might be the beginning of a laugh. Masatoshi takes a breath, tastes sincerity like a weight at the back of his tongue. "No one could replace you, Mei."
Mei's hand comes out, his fingers stretching past the view of the camera; from how soft his eyes have gone, Masatoshi can guess where they've come to land. His skin prickles with phantom pressure, the imagined friction of Mei's hand fitting against his jaw and sliding down the line of his neck, and it's suddenly more than he can bear, the knot in his chest twisting into pain so sharp he gasps for air.
"I want to see you," Mei tells him, looking up into the camera lens directly instead of at the image of Masatoshi on his screen. His eyes are still soft and wide with sincerity; with his chin up the light catches them into blue like the summer sky, bright and crystalline in the illumination. "When can I come to visit?"
"You have practice," Masatoshi says, because he has to, because it's his job to be responsible when Mei tries to fly off the rails. "You can't afford to skip that many days."
"Then you come here," Mei tells him, his forehead creasing and mouth drawing into a pout. "You have extra days off sometimes, right? Come and see one of my games." His eyes are going brighter, his lips softening into a smile at the thought. "I'll show you how hard I've been working. I'm getting better all the time."
"I know," Masatoshi says. "I'll come to your next match."
Mei's eyes go wide; he pushes himself up on the bed, the blankets sliding half-off his shoulders. "Really?" Masatoshi nods. Mei makes an incoherent sound, a high chirp of delight, and then he's leaning in closer, smiling as bright as if Masatoshi's words have put the sun back behind his eyes. "It's soon, it's next week, are you sure you can make it?"
"I know when your games are," Masatoshi tells him. "Yes, I'm sure."
Mei beams at him. "I'll get to see you," he says, soft and warm like he's turning the idea over to tuck it away into his memory. "Can you stay the night?"
Masatoshi can't help the laugh that bubbles up his throat. It's too sudden, startled out of him by the directness of Mei's question, and then he's laughing and Mei's glowing and the pressure in his chest feels bearable again, feels like the almost-pleasant ache of a bruise instead of the agony of a missing piece.
"Yeah," he says. "I'll stay the night."
When Mei smiles at him, Masatoshi smiles back.