Disclaimer: Diamond no Ace does not belong to me.
Life Is Never Fair 01 - and you never noticed
During his first club practice of his second year, Tanba has the terrible misfortune of meeting one Miyuki Kazuya.
Arrogant, rude, unpleasant bastard with the shit-eating smirk and his dishonest words and fake gestures. Tanba takes one look at him and immediately hates his guts.
And since he hates him so much, it was only to be expected that the coach call him over in the middle of practice, and tells him to pair up with first-year for some tentative battery practice. "I just want to see how well you two can work together," he says, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Pleased to meet you, Tanba-san," the first-year says, grinning wide and showing teeth.
Tanba wants to break his nose. "There's no need," he replies in lieu of an introduction, fighting to keep his voice level. "We already have a catcher."
It's the wrong thing to say. He knows it the instant the words leave his mouth, and feels the coach's glare burn several shades hotter, completely silent.
The newbie doesn't even miss a beat, though. "Aw, come on!" he says, grin morphing into a smirk. "You won't know how good I am if you don't give me a chance."
He very nearly punches him then, feels his arm twitch against his better judgement.
The other boy notices it, because his eyes dart down to Tanba's hand, where his fingers have curled into a tight fist. His smirk hitches wider, almost taunting. "What's the matter?" he asks, voice honeyed with false puzzlement, and god, Tanba has never wanted to hit anyone this much. He almost doesn't care that the coach is standing right there, still seething with displeasure.
A hand lands on his back, and Tanba jerks around.
Chris smiles at him, warm and soothing. "Go on," he says, and Tanba can feel fingers flattening on his shoulder blade. "Show him what you can do."
He stiffens, grits his teeth, and nods.
Tanba throws ten pitches, all curveballs, each one faster than the last.
Miyuki catches every single one of them.
At the end of it, he takes off his face protector and grins, all cocky confidence.
Tanba wants to throw up.
For the rest of the year, he loathes the bespectacled catcher with all his might. He watches Miyuki soar into the first string team, making the achievement seem as easy as breathing, when he himself had to struggle for months to get to where he is now. He feels nauseous when Miyuki smiles and smirks at the other second years and their third year seniors. He sulks and hates and seethes whenever he catches the first year with Chris, discussing pitchers and debating strategies. And he definitely does not think about strangling him when Miyuki comments on his not-so-great control.
"Insolent jerk," he spits out. "As if I didn't already know that."
"You really dislike him, don't you?" Chris muses during dinner, looking thoughtful.
"Yes," he answers curtly. He sees no point in denying it.
Chris chuckles. The sound sends a surge of heat through his chest, warm and delightful; Tanba quickly gulps down a few mouthfuls of water.
"Well," the catcher finally says, "it can't hurt to at least try to get along. Who knows, maybe you two might become good friends."
The notion is so ridiculous that Tanba tries to snort and laugh at the same time, and only succeeds in choking on his drink.
He spends the next few minutes coughing up his lungs, cheeks burning with embarrassment, as the other boy pats him on the back, laughing quietly the entire time.
There isn't much of a reason for it, Tanba acknowledges later, as he gets ready to turn in for the night. If someone were to ask him why, he wouldn't be able to give them an answer, only that the very mention of Miyuki Kazuya has him clenching his jaw in irritation.
The guy pisses him off. That's all there is to it.
But they're on the same team, which means they're fighting together, not against each other. Like it or not, Tanba is stuck with him for the unforeseeable future, and there's nothing he can do about it. Besides, Chris is probably right; he should at least try to make an effort. After all, it's not like Miyuki is going to be catching in real games anyway, not as long as Chris is around. All Tanba has to do is occasionally tolerate him during practice matches, and ignore him every other day. Easy.
The ball bounces once, twice, drops to the ground and rolls to a stop.
Chris falls to his knees on the field, clutching at his shoulder, his entire face contorted in an expression of pain and frustration and anger. The sight is so strange, so alien on the other boy's face that Tanba panics, drops his mitt and rushes over immediately. He bends down in front of the catcher, heart pounding against his ribcage. "What's wrong?"
But the other boy only shakes his head, and says nothing.
An icy coldness settles into his shoulders, spreads like a winter breeze through his blood, and he is suddenly very, very afraid. "Chris?"
"I'm fine," the catcher manages through gritted teeth. "Everything's fine. Just need to catch my breath."
"Bullshit!"
Tanba flinches, surprised, and looks up to see Azuma-senpai looming over them both. A small crowd has gathered around them, a congregation of concerned teammates, and one Coach Kataoka.
"You're not fine," he continues. "Anyone can see that."
"Chris," the coach says. "Are you hurt?"
He hesitates, inhales once as if about to speak, but no answer comes.
The expression of the coach's face is grim. "Isashiki, call an ambulance. We need to get him to a hospital."
"No!" Chris looks up, eyes wide and scared. "Kantoku, I can still play!"
"You're going to the hospital," the coach repeats firmly. "Miyuki will fill in for you."
At that, the catcher squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lip and lowers his head. He doesn't protest when the captain helps him to his feet, doesn't resist when they lead him off the field. Tanba doesn't even realise he's staring until someone nudges his arm, and tells him to get back to the mound.
He turns, feeling dazed, and walks slowly over to where he dropped his mitt earlier. As he bends to pick it up, he sees Miyuki standing outside the dugout, strapping on his gear.
His throat constricts, the corner of his eyes hurt; Tanba really, really hates him.
It doesn't get better. Days turn into weeks. Weeks turn into months.
He hates Miyuki, when Chris gets demoted to the second string team, and Miyuki is suddenly very possibly Seidou's starting catcher.
He hates Miyuki, when Chris brushes off all of Tanba's attempts at conversations, and withdraws from the entire team, going further and further into himself. His eyes dim, his jaw goes rigid, and all the gentility he has come to know from the other boy fades into the past, leaving an untouchable space between them.
During one of his evening jogs, Tanba looks up at the orange sky hanging above him, and wonders when he last saw Chris smile. The thought has him skidding to an abrupt stop, muscles throbbing in protest, as realises he might never see the other boy smile again.
It's a terrifying notion.
A year passes. Tanba begins his third and last year at Seidou. He's still struggling to keep the mound, still trying to meet the coach's expectations. His neck hurts, he can never get a good night's sleep, and he's constantly, inexplicably frustrated. There is an emptiness residing within him, deep in the very centre of his core, wide and gaping.
Chris still won't talk to him. Miyuki is still a regular.
Tanba still hates him.
And then, one day, he realises he might not hate Miyuki quite as much as before. Not anymore.
Because Chris is smiling at the first year southpaw.
The expression is small, only a shadow of what it used to be, but Tanba hasn't seen it in such a long time that it makes his knees weak, and his chest ache with an emotion he refuses to name.
He doesn't hate Sawamura when Chris catches for him. He doesn't hate Sawamura when the first year makes loud, obnoxious attempts at conversation with the catcher, and Chris actually replies quietly, every time. He doesn't hate Sawamura, when the boy tries to stop in mid-jog to talk, unbalances, flails and stumbles into a clumsy heap of limbs, and Chris laughs, low and sweet.
Tanba doesn't hate him, but he very nearly does.
'It's not fair,' he thinks, wiping himself dry after a bath. The three words cycle endlessly in his mind, an accursed mantra as he puts on his clothes and dumps the wet towels into the waiting basket. His thoughts are loud and accusing, have been for weeks now, and it is extremely annoying.
Tanba sighs, leans his head against the wall. He's so very tired, and all he wants is a few hours of rest, so he can wake up feeling refreshed and ready for practice. These days, he barely has the energy to drag himself out of bed.
Behind him, the wooden door slides open. There is a brief pause of surprise, before someone says, "Tanba."
His heart stutters; he curses internally, and turns around.
Chris is standing by the entrance, one arm wrapped around a change of clothes, the other resting on the doorframe. The look in his yellow eyes is bright, but exhausted.
He clears his throat, hopes his voice comes out steady. "Did you just get back?"
The other boy blinks. "Yeah," he answers, reaching behind him to slide the door closed. He walks over to the shelves, sets his clothes down and begins undressing. "The centre's been having some water problems lately, so I couldn't shower there. You're bathing quite late, though."
It takes him a moment to process what he's hearing, because Tanba is currently far too busy staring at the other boy's naked back. Blood floods his cheeks as he tears his gaze away, and he is eternally grateful that Chris has his back turned to him. "I-I needed some quiet," he says, busying his hands with folding his clothes. "To think."
"Oh." He hears the catcher pause. "Everything alright?"
No. "Yes." Tanba swallows hard around that initial response, and doesn't dare look up. "Just tired. I haven't been sleeping well lately."
"It really is tough being the ace, huh?"
He hums in agreement, finishes folding, and despairs. Now he doesn't have anything to distract himself with.
"Tanba."
He looks up, remembers too late that the other boy is currently shirtless, and forgets to breathe.
Chris is giving him a small, reassuring smile, head tilted slightly to one side. "If you ever need to talk," he says, "I'm willing to listen."
It's too much.
For years, that is exactly what Tanba has been trying to tell him. Over and over, only to be rebuffed by cold eyes and stony detachment. Months of agonising over an injury they can't discuss. Months of watching from afar as Chris ruffles Sawamura's hair, allows himself be dragged along by the first year's enthusiasm, laughing with him.
Something inside him snaps, and he surges forward, barrelling straight into the other boy, because it's too much, and how dare he.
He pushes Chris back, ignores the pained grunt as they slam into the wooden shelves, his fingers curled around the other boy's arms. 'It's not fair,' he thinks, as he stares down at the catcher, sees the mixture of emotions in his eyes-shock, pain.
Confusion.
"Tanba," the catcher says.
"It's not fair," he breathes, grits his teeth when his voice cracks.
Chris looks up at him, his yellow eyes wide. "What?"
"I was always there for you," he says, and suddenly the words are pouring off his tongue in a rush, all those years of pent-up emotion finally unclenching as he lets his guard down. "I waited. All this time. You can't just. I mean, I tried to help. I'm sorry I couldn't, but I tried, and it isn't fair, damn it!"
"Tanba, calm down." Even now, Chris is being gentle, even though Tanba has him pinned in place, has his arms trapped in a grip tight enough to bruise. "I don't understand."
He kisses him. Leans forward and mashes their lips together. The ache in his chest is hot and hungry and it hurts, has been hurting for so long that Tanba can't think straight. Underneath him, Chris goes completely still, feels his body tense up, and his lips part in surprise for the briefest of seconds.
Tanba pushes at that gap with his tongue, swallows the shivers racking down his spine. He licks at the roof of his mouth, the sharp of his teeth, and it feels so good.
But then Chris is fighting back, pushing at his chest frantically. One particular shove is hard enough to send him back half-a-step, and Chris gasps, panting for breath. "What are you-"
Tanba kisses him again, and again, and again. Wedges a leg between the other boy's thighs, and shifts his entire weight forward. He feels Chris curl a fist in his shirt, feels his other hand pushing at his neck, his face. Tanba bites down on his lower lip, slides a hand across the other boy's abdomen, his whole body twitching with want.
Chris yelps, turns his head sideways and breaks the kiss, one hand dropping to grip Tanba's wrist. So he moves to Chris' cheek, mouths at the curve of his ear, bites his earlobe. He hears the catcher inhale sharply; heat pools in Tanba's stomach, and he leans down, following the line of his neck. He can taste sweat on the other boy's skin, and for some reason, it is absolutely delicious. He presses closer, wanting something, wanting more.
"Tanba, please stop."
And he freezes. His heart slams to a halt, and his entire being goes cold. Slowly, he leans back, keeping his gaze fixed on the other boy's face.
Chris is breathing hard, his head turned to one side, his cheeks flushed; his eyes are squeezed shut, and remain closed. He's trembling.
When Tanba looks down, the catcher's knuckles are white, and his fingers are shaking.
He jerks away, stumbling backwards, and nearly trips over his own feet. He feels sick, can taste bile at the back of his throat, and he can't quite breathe right.
Chris still won't look at him.
Tanba runs.