"…put everything we've got in stake, let's worry about today, and put tomorrow in a bottle…"


Yamamoto wasn't surprised to see that the party was already well under way when Akira's house came into view. The lights were all on, illuminating the outline of the house. Music thumped faintly from within, a pounding beat and a bass. A couple of cars were parked in the wide driveway and spilled out onto the street, but most of the people attending lived within walking distance.

He joined the stream of partygoers and somehow made his way through the front door in one piece. It was a symphony of hip-hop music, laughter, the clinking of glasses, and voices melding together. His eyes adjusted to the dim lighting—although the lights were on full-power, the mass of human flesh sort of blocked the radiance.

As he wandered around looking for the host, numerous hands clapped his back and shoulders in greeting. He made sure to give each person a quick smile, exchanging only quick pleasantries before going on his way again.

He found Akira in the spacious living room, messing around with the stereo's sound system. The room was serving as a makeshift dance floor, and already there were couples rolling and grinding into one another in time to the music. There were more girls than Yamamoto had expected to show up; usually, only a handful bothered to come, for the prospect of being around so much baseball-fueled testosterone scared them. But the crowd was equally mixed between the genders this time.

"Akira," he said, knocking his teammate lightly on the head.

The boy spun with a friendly smile. "Yo! Takeshi-san. Glad you could make it." He bumped his fist to Yamamoto's in a greeting.

"Here." Yamamoto handed him the cap, wrapped hastily in paper.

Akira took the parcel, ripped open the paper, and whistled when he saw the cap. "Nice! Hey, man, thanks. It wasn't necessary, though." He set it on top his head and then stepped back, surveying the crowd before him with a satisfied look. "It hasn't been an hour, and already everyone's enjoying themselves."

"Yeah. Kind of sad to know this is the last time we'll be together as a team."

"All good things come to an end, right? Plus, there's the spring season."

"That's true." Yamamoto laughed.

Akira joined in. "Hey, well, help yourself," he said. "We've got the music here for the dancer folks, and all the other rooms are free to use if you can't handle the beats. There's a nice spread in the kitchen. That's where the alcohol is stashed, by the way." Then he looked at Yamamoto. "Is (y/n)-san with you?"

"No, she didn't show."

"Oh." Akira nodded knowingly. "Because her dad's here, right?"

Surprise overtook Yamamoto, and he wasn't quick enough to hide it behind a grin. Seeing his astonished look, Akira said, "Well, I asked her about it the other day. Apparently they had some sort of falling-out?"

"Yeah. Uh, yeah, that's it." Well, it was better than the truth. "Anyway, I better leave you alone. See you around, Akira."

"Enjoy yourself, Takeshi-san," replied the boy, with another fist-bump. Both exploded it backwards, and then Akira turned back to messing with the sound system while Yamamoto merged with the crowd.

Practically everyone said hi to him as he looked for his teammates, hoping to say a few parting words with them. Of course, as this was a baseball party, Yamamoto was the unwritten star. He was Namimori's All-Star Player. There was a mutual adoration for him in everyone.

An hour or so passed by before his stomach began to growl in annoyance, demanding it be filled. He tried to ignore it, but his stomach got even louder. Soon, pangs of hunger were eating at his abdomen. Damn, hunger this sharp didn't usually come so quick, did it?

Although he didn't want to, he knew he would have to eat something, quick. And so Yamamoto set off for the kitchen.

Akira had been right; the spread iwas/i pretty spectacular. It ranged from mouth-watering appetizers to filling dinner entrées to quick grab-and-go snacks. And the beverages were water, soda, and alcohol. Lots of it. There was a keg, along with tall bottles of vodka and wine.

There were quite a few people hanging out in the kitchen, the reason obviously to get away from the noise and stay close to the food, the beer. A group of girls milled around in the back, giggling and tittering amongst themselves as they polished off chocolate fruit cocktails. They were exiting as Yamamoto stepped inside, and he nodded with a smile as they all squealed out hellos.

The girl in the back lingered for a moment, hesitation in her face and in her posture. Her luscious black curls had been straightened, and Yamamoto would've never recognized her, if not for her striking blue eyes and the way she swung her hips. "Suzuki," he said involuntarily.

She bit her lip. "Um, h-hi," she squeaked, going red in the face. "Yamamoto-kun. It's g-good to s-see you." Her voice broke, and though she quickly looked away, Yamamoto caught her eyes misting over.

He remembered his promise to you, but to have her cry… "What," he started, but Suzuki shook her head furiously. She met his eyes head-on, her face set in determination.

"I'm not sad or anything. I'm not crying." A single tear traced its way down her cheek.

He had expected her to flirt with him, not to get all vulnerable and soft. And he didn't like seeing her this way. But she was strong. "Right. I suppose you got rained on."

A smile flitted across her face, and he answered it with one of his own. "Yeah. I'd forgotten my umbrella," she said, and she reached out to touch his hand. "Catch you around." Then she turned and followed her friends.

Yamamoto was slightly stunned for a moment, but he shook it off. His initial hunger had worn off, proving to be false, which he had assumed from the speed. But he was now parched; his mouth was dry as cotton, and he could barely swallow without flinching from the razor-like glass feeling.

Soda generally made him nauseous, and he wasn't going to have any alcohol. So water it was.

He'd grabbed a plastic cup and was heading for the gallon water pitcher when someone snickered behind him. "What, can't hold your liquor?"

That dry voice, thick yet somehow syrupy. "Coach," Yamamoto muttered, more to himself than addressing the man.

And (l/n) was standing there, holding a cup of beer in each hand. "Takeshi," he said gruffly, his gunmetal eyes holding quick to Yamamoto's. "Didn't think you would come."

"Why's that, Coach? I wouldn't miss this party for the world."

He only snorted. "Did the bitch come with you?" he asked next, and there was a quick spark of anger in Yamamoto's chest before he almost laughed aloud. You had predicted you would be called a bitch by him. Seems you'd been right.

"No, she had something better to do." He was only half-lying, although he wasn't sure exactly what you were doing back home. But anything was better than this.

Did the older man almost look disappointed by Yamamoto's reaction? He smiled then, revealing a smile of yellowed teeth and stained gums. "You can't drink that," he said.

"What? This? You mean, I can't drink my water?"

"That's right. You've gotta have a cup of beer." (L/n)'s smile was widening. "It's an old tradition."

His smile had Yamamoto on high alert. But the raven-haired boy was more wary of the look in (l/n)'s eyes: hard, flat, they were completely empty, save for an ugly glimmer. He checked the man for signs of intoxication and found none; there was a higher chance that he wasn't lying about the tradition.

But there was no way Yamamoto was drinking beer. He'd promised you. And besides, he had seen and experienced firsthand the consequences of alcohol…

"Sorry. I'm not much of a drinker." He didn't drink at all. And he wasn't about to change.

"Scared?" taunted (l/n). "It's just beer. It won't hurt you, maggot."

"Thanks, but no thanks." Yamamoto turned back to the water pitcher and went to pour when he heard the man step closer. There was something menacing in his movement. And his breathing had suddenly become heavier, like he was on the edge of exploding—

"It's just a fucking cup," (L/n) snarled. "Drink it or the bitch'll pay."

Yamamoto tensed. He couldn't drink the beer; he couldn't and he wouldn't. But it was, after all, just one cup—and (l/n)'s voice had not been lying when he'd threatened about you—

No way in hell was Yamamoto going to risk your safety, all over a few sips of alcohol.

"Fine." Yamamoto spun around and snatched a cup from (l/n)'s meaty hand. Then, keeping his eyes locked onto your father's, he chanced a sip. Nasty. He took another sip, longer this time, determined to finish the cup off in three swallows. It was hot and acrid against his taste buds, and he gagged as it went down.

But somehow, he drained the cup. He all but threw it back toward (l/n), who was smiling strangely. He could still taste the liquid fire at the back of his throat, and it was absolutely disgusting. He wanted to puke.

"You just saved her ass. It's amazing what love can do," (L/n) mused, and his smile was all lethality around the edges. "Have a nice winter, maggot. I can't wait 'til baseball starts up again." With a cackling laugh, he was gone.

As long as you were unharmed. Yamamoto would do anything for you, and he knew it; (L/n) knew it; he was pretty sure you knew it, in a way at least.

Even though he had just drunk, he was still parched. His hands shook as he reached for another cup, intending to pour himself a glass of water, but the amber-colored bottles in the corner caught his eye.

His head hurt. His stomach was in knots. But he felt pleasant, somehow. The world was slowing down around him. The colors were intensifying, then softening, and it felt nice—it looked nice—it was nice.

Everyone else was drinking it. Why not?

Just another cup, he said to himself. Just one more.