Ryosuke doesn't see Haruichi until after the game.
He's exhausted, dusty and sweaty and starting to feel the twinge in his hip that says he's on the verge of pushing too hard, that he'll need to go home and ice it all evening if he's going to have any chance of making practice the next day. At least he has the satisfaction of the team's victory, their continued progress through the tournament enough to ease the constant frustration of trying to play with a body no longer able to do what he wants it to. He's just starting to talk himself into a better mood, reaching out to reclaim his usual mask of a smile, when he rounds the corner from the dugout and comes face-to-face with the last person he wants to see.
He doesn't lose his smile. Habit has ingrained that much into him, that even in the first chill of horrified realization in his veins his expression goes fixed instead of slipping away. It's like stepping back into a familiar character, acting so well-developed over years that it's easier to remember how to be aniki than how to be Ryosuke.
"Haruichi," Ryosuke purrs, the syllables shivering with the strange almost-familiarity of nostalgia on his tongue. "Didn't expect to see you here." His tone strips away the actual sincerity of the words, turn them into almost a taunt, as if he's chastising his brother for not appearing at one of his games before now.
"Aniki," Haruichi breathes, sounding just as starstruck and gasping as he always has, and some of the tension in Ryosuke's chest thinks about evaporating.
Then Haruichi takes a breath, his hands draw into fists, and when he says, "What were you doing?" the knot around Ryosuke's heart draws so tight he can barely breathe.
"Playing baseball," he says, pleased when the words come out teasing and light. "Have you forgotten what the game looks like from the outside?"
"Have you forgotten how to play?" Haruichi snaps with unusual aggression. It's nearly enough to crack Ryosuke's smile; only the years of practice keep it in place as Haruichi's fingers tighten against his palms, as he ducks his head like the shadow of his hair will hide the shake of emotion in his voice. "What was that, that wasn't you. You're better than that."
Ryosuke shrugs, the motion casual and amused and completely manufactured. "I thought I'd try taking it easy for a change. Didn't you like it?"
He doesn't say that his hip can't take more than what he was doing already, that some of the dives he made to catch the ball were no less enthusiastic than those he made at Seido. It's not his own effort but Haruichi's perspective that has changed, what once seemed superhuman skill on Ryosuke's part made mundane and trivial as Haruichi's own talent outstrips all the years of his brother's efforts to stay in the lead.
Haruichi's head dips further, his mouth going tight and trembling with emotion. It hurts to see him so anguished, hurts to know Ryosuke is the cause of it. It's not the only pain. Ryosuke's hip is aching worse the long he stands on it, a constant reminder of the excessive training that put him off the field for months of recovery, and the inevitable loss of Haruichi's idealized view of him hurts too much to even contemplate, as yet.
So when Haruichi says, "I would have liked it if you had played," with his voice cracking on the judgment he thinks is justified, Ryosuke forces a sharp-edged laugh instead of crying, says, "You can tell me what to do when you catch up to me," as he turns away, and when he takes a step he doesn't let his limp show.
Someday Haruichi will see the gap between their abilities. It's coming, coming faster now that their skill levels have finally inverted, as Ryosuke always knew they would. There's only so many more games he can keep Haruichi from seeing, only so much cruelty can do to hide his weakness before Haruichi realizes the pedestal he has always put his brother on doesn't exist at all.
Ryosuke will do anything to delay seeing that sympathy in Haruichi's eyes.