(KAI) This chapter covers episodes 21 through 25. Episode 26 will not be covered. Contains all the usual, in varying doses.

Recover

Mihashi rung his jersey out, heart beating fast and happy in his chest. He had a good feeling. The bad fire in his body was cooling, the chill of the water and the way Abe had come to help him had eased some of the sick, burning tension; knowing about Kanou helped, too.

Abe was handing him a fresh tee-shirt, voice firm but gentle. There was something pleasant and offbeat about it, as though Abe was thinking of many things, all at once.

"Don't let your shoulders get cold."

Ah- that was a nice thing to think, wasn't it?

The Apple Seed

"Suyama...!" Sakaeguchi exhaled, his outcry quiet and a little strangled; he leaned against the railing, trying to compose himself. That had been a peculiar feeling; the quick and shallow jolt that raced up his chest and into his throat.

But the ball had flown right for his best friend's face. Of course he was startled. And thank goodness it had missed, clearing the space in front of Suyama's nose with inches to spare. A walk wasn't worth Suyama getting hurt.

Definitely not.

Mnemosyne

Izumi dropped his head for a moment, taking a deep breath. Looking at Mihashi and Abe, standing together in the dug-out, he feels transported, suddenly and without his permission, to that time. Two years ago. Two long, sick years ago. When Hamada-

He takes a deep breath. Now is not the time for remembering.

Acid

In the stands, Hamada begins a cheer for Tajima. It is loud, energetic, and it sounds right.

And Izumi is absolutely, completely, not even a little bit jealous. Not at all.

Letterman

Mihashi sits and waits for his at-bat; the rain is letting up and he feels relatively at peace. He feels safe and warm and can feel, somehow very well feel, Abe's eyes on his back, and it doesn't make him nervous. He tugs Abe's coat tighter down on his shoulders, catches a smell- kashmir, cinnamon- and breathes.

Just breathes.

Fail, Succeed

Mihashi is cute, trying to cheer him up, but there's a pit in his stomach. It makes him feel heavy and a little sick; he's desperate for that win. Tajima looks at Mihashi with the full force of that need, and it seems to terrify the blonde. He blinks.

But then Hanai's voice; firm and cajoling.

Hanai and Sakaeguchi and even Izumi; but it's the look in Hanai's eyes that makes him stop, makes him warm.

Makes him wonder.

Dash

The batter's aim is straight and true; he goes from a bunt to a hit and the ball flies straight.

Straight for Mihashi.

Abe's shout; "Watch out!"

The jar of impending impact; but none. Mihashi's reflexes turn a broken nose into a thump against his cheek bone, and the ball drops.

Relief. Mihashi's panicked search for the ball.

It seems as though it takes forever for the ball to make it home, but it does, and Abe's block against the runner is successful.

Abe grits his teeth; a feeling of excessive stress flooding his bones. He drops the ball and calls a time-out, and hardly a moment passes before he's sprinting to Mihashi, furious. He grabs the pitcher by the jersey front, shakes, shouts.

But it isn't only the barely blocked run that has him agitated.

It's worse when Tajima translates Mihashi's tearful expressions; the very idea that the blonde had been scared for Abe's own safety was infuriating, painful- and made him feel special. He didn't know how to deal; he grabbed Mihashi again, stress guiding his motions. He had to get it into Mihashi's head- and out of his own, somehow.

Nothing makes sense. He finishes yelling. Tries to get his temper under control. He stomps away from Mihashi's sweetness and tears and remembers that this game could be their last if they aren't careful. It's the damn eighth already.

Still-

Why doesn't anything make sense anymore?

Apologize

His gear hit the bench with a clatter; the sound did little to ease the tension in his chest. Abe took a deep breath and called, "Mihashi."

Holding Tosei at one run had helped, but a mild and unbeatable guilt had taken root in him, and he knew it had been the tears and the care for his own well-being that had put it there. He had to tell Mihashi he was sorry, for both Mihashi's sake and the sake of the game. His heart thumped, sharp, against his ribs.

"I wasn't really mad before, so don't freak out like that," he approached the cowering Mihashi with his voice set at a low level. It was so easy to lose his cool around the guy. No one had been such an itch in his mind since Haruna, and that had been entirely different.

Mostly.

Oh, God.

But there wasn't time to think on it- and Abe hoped there never was, because he could not, could not, could not, handle it. Mihashi cowered more deeply behind Tajima, and that set off a nerve in his skull. He made a grab and pulled Mihashi nearer, intoning, loud, "I'm telling you I'm not mad!"

He really wasn't.

It was something else.

Lion

Mihashi stared, eyes absorbing more detail than he thought necessary. Everything was in sharp relief around Abe; dark and wet and real. The catcher had approached the plate with a determined stride; his legs lean and sure. His hands clenched around the bat- something clenching in Mihashi's chest. A deep, inaccessible feeling.

And then Abe roared. Roared.

The pitcher gripped the railing, unable to look away. A small, breathless sound had tripped up, out of his throat and past his teeth.

Had he ever seen something as amazing as this? Anything more magnificent?

Had anything ever taken away his breath like this?

He moved his right hand, his pitching hand, up, and grasped the front of his jersey. If his heartbeat, frantic and wild and heavy, was any indication, then no, no he had not.

Abe was amazing.

Flutter

Abe seemed to fly over first, his foot stamping the base and his body light in the air. As he fell and slid to the ground, Mihashi's chest went tight, went a little sick with fear. Abe had to be careful- he couldn't get hurt-

But he was okay. He was strong and sturdy and he was... so excited to have made it to first.

His eyes, Mihashi thought, watching Abe's hand form a fist as he shouted in victory.

They're so intense.

Runaway

Hamada couldn't help himself; he grabbed the links of the protective fence and hollered, "Nice, Izumi!"

He had to. It was his job, after all. And Izumi had done a phenomenal job; he had pushed Abe forward and taken a base. He was amazing. And he was so close. Only so many meters away. If he could have, Hamada would have rushed onto the field and shown Izumi exactly how excited for the play he was.

A flash. Warm hands, lingering. Leaning over a smaller frame; pushing, touching. Sweat.

Hamada flushed, letting out a strangled sound of embarrassment before turning his face up into the rain. Now was entirely the wrong time to be reminiscing.

But it would have been nice.

Pressure in, Pressure out

Suyama had to help; he knew what Sakaeguchi was thinking, and what he needed to hear. And he wanted the game as much as anybody; and he wondered, would Sakaeguchi ever realize how well he knew him? How easy he was for Suyama to read? How highly he was thought of? And how much he was wanted?

Suyama kept his teeth tight together to keep from blurting out what Sakaeguchi didn't need to hear on the field, during this game, or ever if Suyama decided to keep it all a secret.

Sakaeguchi jogged over, face expectant and colored with chagrin. It was cute, and it made Suyama feel bold; speaking low, he pulled the smaller boy under his arm. His quiet tone made Sakaeguchi lean close to hear, and he didn't seem shy about leaning into the taller player. Having nothing more to say without embarrassing himself, he turned and jogged away- not before giving Yuuto's shoulder a careful squeeze.

And then- Yuuto's voice, nervous and calling him back. The other boy pulled off his glove and dropped the bat, stuttering and flushed and more gorgeous than Suyama could bear. And then Sakaeguchi grabbed his hand, the warmth and dampness of his smaller hand perfect and pliant and sweet to have. The smaller seemed frozen, unable to go on, and Shoji was uncertain if Yuuto even knew what he wanted; the tension rose and Suyama gripped the other boy's hand tightly.

He would be kind. "You can do it!"

And the way that Sakaeguchi gasped, the way he shivered- Suyama knew that was all he would ever need.

Pressure in, Pressure out

Sakaeguchi didn't know what possessed him. But this was Suyama and Suyama was his best friend, and frankly, he was the greatest comfort he knew. The only friend he had ever felt so comfortable around. The only friend that had well and truly been there for him, listened to him and given him advice, who had shared his futon without an complaint or trace of awkwardness.

Whose smile could be so warm sometimes.

He pulled off one of his gloves- dropped the bat- stuttered. How was it that gentle, careful, kind Suyama could make him so nervous sometimes? But he knew what he wanted to do, what he wanted to say; he just had to get past this anxiety.

But Shoji beat him to it; he pulled Yuuto's hand up, squeezed it tight and said, loud and supportive, "You can do it!"

And the strange, elastic feeling in Sakaeguchi's chest snapped and resonated. He shivered, squeezing back. Suyama was special, somehow, so very, very special.

And that had to mean something.

A Father

Seeing Shiga clap and hold Shinooka's hands is one of the sweetest things Momoe has ever seen; on top of the elation caused by Tajima's hit and the two subsequent runs, she isn't sure her feelings of joy and promise can be contained. She can see into the future; it is bright and warm and perfect. For a moment, Maria makes eye contact with Shiga, and he smiles. Just... smiles.

And everything makes sense.

Fired Up

From the coach's box, Tajima calls out to Hanai. He's excited, encouraging. Hanai can see, in a strange light, how the rain slides against the other player's skin. For whatever reason,

But it puts fire in his blood, Tajima's support, and he grips the bat with renewed energy.

This game is theirs.

New Parts

Abe watched as Mihashi shook. It was only a moment of his time. A short, highly consolidated slice of his life spent focusing on the reeling lines of Mihashi's small, pale frame. He was like a wind-up toy, waiting to be released. Even at a distance, Abe could see the redness of the other boy's flushed cheeks, like the painted circles on a child's plaything. It was almost over. A feeling of tense, wary hopefulness was alive and tight in his chest, and it pushed against his ribs as he tossed the ball to his pitcher.

A series of interesting expressions flickered across Mihashi's face, all of them making the tightness in Abe's chest feel like a band- a rubber band, pulled and looped and un-releasable.

Frustrated Over

Mihashi pitched, unsure. He had a feeling that the fastballs might not be a good idea, or rather, that something was just going to go wrong. Abe caught it, but the look on his face made Mihashi want to crawl into the ground and never come out.

Abe was mad. His eyes were narrowed and dark and when he threw the ball back, he threw it hard.

It made his knees want to knock; he spun away, trying to compose himself.

It was as though Abe had read his mind, reaching and pulling the thoughts from his mind and branding them unacceptable. It was a terrifying thing. He didn't want Abe to be mad at him. Ever. Ever, ever.

And Mihashi knew there was something important to that, too. Middle school had been- it had been- somehow so awful. His fastballs were always hit. Surprising him, Abe threw him the sign for a screwball, toward the outside. Abe was always somehow surprising him. Even if he lost his temper, or even if Tajima or Sakaeguchi had to step in a make things make sense, Abe could, without seeming to try, just reach into his mind and understand his thoughts and feelings.

It was intense. Welcome and strange and oddly uplifting. Mihashi threw.

Unpredictable Advantages

Maybe he had made a mistake. Abe gritted his teeth, his heart thumping with massive, wasteful energy as he watched Mihashi pick himself up off the ground. He was so fragile. These little setbacks and small mistakes always broke his will, somehow. Always threw Mihashi off balance and well-being. It was so frustrating; and it was more than that. It was an uphill fight that always found Abe back at the bottom of the mountain of Mihashi's low self-esteem and inability to cope with failure and pressure.

There had to be a better way. There had to be a way to fix things. He strode forward a handful of steps before he stopped himself. Halfway into his stride, his plan had changed, without his permission-

-get down there and grab him, shake him, make him see-

-without sense or meaning. His heart rocketed into his throat and he rooted himself to the ground where he stood, forcing himself to swallow it down. Instead, he shouted. It was safe. It usually worked.

Though sometimes it made his insides hurt when he did.

His back up plan, however, seems to be working. Mihashi is simple, he's easy to trick. Naivete, sweetness, and a bendable mind... such things in a fragile person like Mihashi.

Abe wondered if he was still taking care of the pitcher at all, anymore.

Ragged Edge

Mihashi's heart was in a panic. I'm scared. I'm scared. I'm scared.

For the first time in a long time, Abe seemed very far away, as though he had left altogether, and an imposter shaped like Abe had crouched in his place.

How could he suggest that? Would he really...? I'm so scared, I'm so scared.

The pitcher wavered and breathed, and the other side of his mind began to hiss and crackle into life. He didn't want to leave the mound. Not at all. Never. And Abe hadn't told him to- it was still his own choice. He gripped the ball, appreciating the familiar pattern of stitches on the ball's battered, dirty surface.

No matter how bad it got- no matter how his heart strained or his mind raced- this unbending part of himself, so difficult to access, would always win out. Let it rain, or burn, or let the team be professionals of the highest order- he still wanted to pitch.

And despite everything, he still wanted to pitch to Abe.

Cementing

The fastball connects, flies upward. Mihashi's focus is intent and almost wild; he sees Abe dive for it, but the arc is full and fat and falls neatly away, past his catcher's grasp. Abe curses, slams his fist once into the wet dirt.

My fastball isn't fast enough- he's mad- Panic explodes across Mihashi's skin, because he screwed up, bad, and now Abe is coming, coming to berate him, to force him to switch to-

"Sorry," Abe stops a few feet away, throws the ball with an earnestly apologetic look in his dark eyes. He's not close enough to really see, but Mihashi knows they're grey. Cloudy, dark grey.

He's... not mad.

Blooming warmth, deep in Mihashi's chest.

And then... no one is mad. Everyone is yelling their support, and the ball- it gets hit, but Izumi catches it, and when it reaches Hanai, his throw is so true, and Abe keeps the runner from scoring the game-changing run.

They win.

They win, and Mihashi is happy. He stands by Abe and thanks the cheering squad. Everything is perfect. Cemented, together.

Thank You

Izumi flushes, hot even in the rain. Hamada is looking right at him. Into his eyes. His words are for the team, they really are, but his eyes- foolishly filling with tears- are for Izumi alone. Hamada's voice wavers, full of that over-emotional quality that Izumi knows that he can't stand, yet he swallows, wavers himself, and can't look away.

It's happening again. He can't stop it.

Relief Next to Me

He hadn't imagined it. Mihashi had been keyed up, running on fumes, desperate and brilliant; loud, bold, a little brash, still so fragile and strange, and it was most likely his ability that had driven them to the win.

Abe was proud- intensely proud. The worry was waning, and he wasn't so surprised that the blonde had fallen asleep. It was another funny, weirdly cute aspect the other boy's personality, and it made sense.

He wondered if Mihashi could fall asleep anywhere, and he wondered what that kind of line of thinking meant. He wondered what it meant that he wanted to scoop the pitcher up and carry him away, so that he could personally keep an eye on him until he was sure Mihashi was really okay.

He wondered if it wasn't all a dream. But he was happy. This was the first of what he was certain would be many more wins. They could do it with Mihashi, he knew.

He could do it.

But, when he and Tajima had to carry him to the car, he couldn't quite bring himself to look at the pitcher. The way he hung, limp, and the way his hip brushed Abe's, that was too much, and he knew that if he looked... something... would happen. Something... something, but he wasn't sure what.

Unrelenting Uncertainty

Abe sees Izumi up ahead, hails him- for a moment, he contemplates the other boy's freckles, his dark eyes, and knows that it does not stir him. It has come to this- to evaluations and troubling introspection. Since watching Mihashi disappear into his mother's car, the strange need to keep an eye on him, to be perpetually near, had not abated at all, as he thought it would with their first win.

It is most disconcerting. And the situation has implications he is neither ready nor willing to contemplate. Instead, he investigates other angles, hardly aware of his own desperation.

He immediately tells Izumi about his planned trip to Mihashi's. Was there a reason for it? ...No. And the fact that Hanai is accompanying him does not help.

And there is, of course, no reason for the ire to rise, deep in his belly, when Tajima shows up, intent on coming, too. No reason for the possessiveness, and no reason for the strange, quiet guilt that has begun to grow in his belly. Guilt... and maybe...

Jealousy?

This, Too

He doesn't even know why he wants to know. What does it matter what Tajima or Izumi discuss with Mihashi? As long as Mihashi is eating, sleeping, and working hard, that's all the team needs.

That's all I need, Abe reasons with himself, lying.

So Cool

Izumi hasn't seen Hamada in an intensive way in so long- hasn't seen him running, working, sweating-

Sweating.

Oh, god.

He watches in awe as Hamada controls the basketball court, keeping the ball close and dribbling fast; he hardly seems human, so unusually focused is he. His hair shines. His skin is flushed. For the first time in a long time, Izumi remembers the feeling, because the feeling resurfaces for a moment, strong and vibrant and bright, and he can't help but wonder-

Is he really still afraid? Will it happen again, all of it?

Will he mind if it does?

Hamada scores, and Izumi wonders.

Maybe, Maybe

Could it be... That Mihashi hates me?

It's the Fear

Mihashi doesn't rightly know why he can't respond to Abe's texts, why his printed words throw him into a nervous fit; he remembers the harshness of his catcher's insistent suggestion, Switch if you can't pitch, but he knows, deeply inside, that there's more. There has to be more to why his heart beats so frantically, to why his skin feels like it's too tight for his bones, and why he can't seem to stop shaking when he remembers the game- remembers the water and the rain and the way Abe looked while he sat on the floor of the showers and fell apart-

And why he thinks, frantically sometimes, that he'd give anything to go back to that moment and see what could've happened next.

Catcher

Mihashi is so pale. Nearly as pale as he had been during the game against Tosei. It makes Abe's stomach knot. There has to be more, more that he can do to take care of this boy. Keep his strength up, keep him healthy and happy and able and pitching his best-

And happy-

Abe swallows it down, "You look pretty sick."

"Not really..." Mihashi flushes, looking away and bringing one hand up to toy with the hem of his shirt. It's... alluring. Abe's focus can't retreat. He can't believe himself. Is that how it feels? Is this it...?

Tajima's voice cuts through the fog of terror and beauty in Abe's mind, and it additionally sends Mihashi into a weakness, the blonde's knees buckling as he swayed in dismay. Abe almost catches him, reaches out, and would have... if Mihashi had fallen, he would have.

Without hesitation, he is Mihashi's catcher.

To Understand

He is so, so desperately concerned when Mihashi ends his sentence with 'kilograms.' The pitcher has lost three kilograms... three godforsaken kilograms, and now he's tired, weak, and sick. Abe certainly has failed. And he sees it most evidently when the abject worry screaming through his head and out of his mouth translates into a loud, heated anger that makes Mihashi cringe and cower and wail.

That's not... That's not what he wants. He slows down. Thinks. Mihashi's tears stir him to stillness; they remind him of Mihashi's weakness, his stature and build and metabolism and how he ran on fumes to keep himself together for the game.

And he feels that pang of guilt grow and grow, realizing, It's because I yell at him... and act like this... that he... hates...

That he hates me.

It's no good. They have to be a functioning battery. He takes a deep breath and begins again, hoping to make things right, even if just a little.

Mihashi stops shaking and peers up, his honey-colored eyes wide and fearful and confused, but warming. He looks so small; his clothes hang on him, and his limbs bend so easily, so that he seems to fold and disappear and become as tiny as he must feel. Guilt.

Abe feels the stress eat at him; the admission that Mihashi is so sweet and hateless giving his fiery ire a dousing of chill, watery reason. It isn't in Mihashi to hate... he is kind and gentle and a little silly... Abe glowers, his mind running six directions at once. Watching Mihashi, it is impossible to understand anything- anything at all.

Hunger

It is peculiar, but nice, to spend the afternoon with his team-mates. But it isn't his team-mates that Hanai is focused on. Tajima, with his loudness and brashness and flashing charisma and bright smile- there is so much here that Hanai can't seem to look away from. He eats his curry happily enough, but there is a growing feeling of disquiet while he casually keeps an eye on the clean-up hitter.

It's a disquiet he is sure is no good for him; as the captain, he has to stay upright and careful, and Tajima's aura is something he doesn't have the time to get sucked in to.

Though he senses he might want to be.

Sweet Lies

Mihashi lies to himself. He is unaware, but they come swiftly and naturally to him. He believes in his ineptitude, and he believes in his failings. He believes that his team-mates loathe him, that he is friendless.

He apologizes. But then- Abe, Abe who terrifies and inspires him and makes his insides too warm and his mouth dry and his head rush- Abe lies.

Rather, he admits to have lied. Mihashi's heart stutters and stalls and he tries to work out what this all means- Abe hadn't been serious out there? Hadn't really expected Mihashi to switch?

Hadn't been mad?

He doesn't know what to say. "I-I'm sorry."

"Never mind that. Never hesitate to throw to home again; my feelings get hurt, too, you know," Abe is stoic, calm while he eats. He isn't... he isn't lying.

Mihashi glows with this revelation, with this insight and access to Abe's nature. "I'm sorry," he murmurs, face hot.

The glow fades when Abe realizes Mihashi had seen his texts and hadn't replied, but it's a kind of henpecking that makes Mihashi nervous and cared for rather than really hurt. It's a sweet kind of lying; of mixed messaging and closeness. He whimpers and shakes, but really can't wait to stretch, can't wait to have Abe's attention.

Tajima suggests a massage, and it makes Mihashi weak in his knees. He is instantly, intensely, grateful to already be sitting. But Abe won't, and his voice is a little choked, a little nervous.

Mihashi lies to himself. He assumes he isn't worth it, isn't capable of receiving that kind of contact and attention from Abe. But Abe's cough does not mean what Mihashi thinks it means- not even remotely.

And when Abe gets close, when he finally puts his hands against Mihashi's back, their lies falter. For a moment, they flicker and fade.

Absolute Beginners

Later, Mihashi waves from his porch, happy and full and content. He waves until everyone is nearly out of sight- until Abe pauses and looks back at him, their eyes meeting.

His wave stutters and stills. His mouth is dry. Abe's gaze... It's level and cool, searching. He can't look away for the moment his catcher holds his focus.

And then Abe's temples and cheeks go dusky with color, and he vanishes.

Only then does Mihashi remember to breathe.