The rush of victory hits Abe like a shock, too jarring and startling for him to even feel joy; there's just white-blank surprise in his thoughts, disbelief at the sharp turn reality has taken, because just because it was a possibility didn't mean it could be done. He's still gaping at the umpire, pulling his helmet off from sheer force of habit more than actual comprehension, when the scream goes up from the bleacher, the roar of rising delight from the Nishiura supporters, and that's when it hits him.
It's not joy - it's worry, relief at the abrupt cessation of the game's tension transforming instantly into panic, and he's turning as he throws his helmet to the side, skidding out on the wet ground and still scrambling forward, out towards the pitcher's mound where Mihashi is still standing wide-eyed with the shock that has only just passed over Abe's own thoughts. He tries to pull the impact at the last moment, as he gets close enough to see the fever-high color in Mihashi's cheeks and the white tinge to his lips, but the ground is slick and he's moving fast; he can't stop, entirely, so he goes sideways instead, hooks an arm around Mihashi's narrow shoulders and twists his straight run into a turn. The movement pulls Mihashi off his feet, his already precarious balance going entirely, but that's okay, Abe's got him now, his other arm is catching Mihashi's waist and keeping him upright even though the smaller boy's footing is entirely gone.
"Mihashi," Abe's saying, his voice cracking over disbelief and relief and panic all at the same time until it just sounds shattered and desperate. "Mihashi, we won, I told you you were good." The other boy still hasn't regained his feet, his cleats are still struggling with the slippery ground and Abe's holding his whole weight, he doesn't weigh anything like enough, there's no way he's over 50 kg. Has he lost weight? Did he not tell Abe? Did he eat enough? He's shaking, too, his shoulders trembling violently even when Abe pulls him in closer against his catcher's pads and tries to stop the motion through force of will. Abe's cheek is wet, Mihashi's hair is sticking to his skin and the smaller boy's uniform is drenched too wet to be just the rain. He must have not changed after sitting under the shower. Has he been wet all this time? He's going to get sick, he could catch a fever this way, maybe he already has one, his cheek is blistering hot against Abe's jawline.
Abe tries to take a breath but it catches in his throat and it's then that he realizes that he's not just damp from the rain and from Mihashi's borrowed moisture, he's crying too, sobbing against Mihashi's hair until he can't take a breath, can't keep to his feet. He does manage to go down somewhat slowly, at least, lowering both Mihashi and himself to the ground while avoiding any bruises beyond what they already have. Mihashi's talking, shivering and trembling until the words are almost unintelligible, but part of that is Abe's name, and there's what sounds like an apology in there too though Abe doesn't know what on earth he could be apologizing for, not right now.
"Ssh," he manages. With his knees on the ground it's easier to get one hand up against the back of Mihashi's head to press the smaller boy in close against his shoulder. "It's okay, we won, you did well, it's okay now, just breathe." Mihashi's shaking and Abe can't stop him, can't soothe the trembling out of the other boy's blood, and in some combination of panic and blind thoughtlessness he turns his head, presses his mouth against Mihashi's skin just above the curve of red-gold eyebrow. Mihashi tastes like salt, and rainwater, and heat, and under all of that his skin is softer than it has any right to be, it flares Abe's skin flash-hot to match Mihashi's own feverish state in spite of the cool water falling onto them.
It's only for a moment; then Mihashi shivers again, and Abe comes back to himself and pulls away, and the rest of the team is descending upon them and Mihashi is being swept off in one direction and Abe is going in another, and he's too startled by his own impulsive action to do anything about it. But when he licks his lips they taste like salt, and the flush in his cheeks lingers, the pretense of joyful victory offering him the cover he needs for his own flustered thoughts.