Archive of Our Own

The dirt crunched underneath Miyuki Kazuya’s cleats as he stepped out the dugout, dressed in his catcher’s gear. He looked around the field as the rest of his teammates reached their positions, having run out of the dugout before him. As he watched, they started shouting encouraging words to each other, though mainly to Sawamura.

Sawamura shouted back, loud and cheerful as always, returning their taunts and encouragement with reassuring words of his own. Words that, a year ago, Miyuki would have labeled arrogant and naive.

“Watch me! I’ll prove to you all that I’m the best!” Sawamura shouted just then.

Well, maybe he was still a little arrogant, Miyuki amended the statement in his mind with a smirk. But he didn’t really mind it, especially because Sawamura had proven he could and likely would keep his word, or at least he’d try his very best.

And that was all Miyuki needed. All of Seido needed, especially today.

Because, win or lose, today was their last game.

Miyuki walked up to the pitcher’s mound where Sawamura was reacting to some jibe Kuramochi had called out from his position. Miyuki knocked the pitcher on the head lightly with his gloved hand.

“Chill out,” he said, and Sawamura turned his annoyed glare on him.

“I am the very definition of calm!” Sawamura exclaimed.

“Yeah, no kidding,” Miyuki shook his head and smirked, then turned to the topic at hand, “Anyway— we’ve seen these guys. You already know them and what to do because of our research, right?”

“Right,” Sawamura nodded.

“Then just pitch like you have been.”

“And trust your mitt, right?” 

Miyuki didn’t know why, but something inside him jolted at Sawamura saying that on this particular day at this time. He forced himself to nod, “Right.”

Sawamura turned away, looking at the other Seido players, the dugout, and the loud, cheering audience, “Koshien’s crazy, huh.”

Miyuki silently agreed. The field was beautiful and the energy was off the charts, especially for the final game of the tournament. But now was not the time for Sawamura to become distant and reflective, “You need to focus.”

“Aw, cut some slack, Cap!” Sawamura retorted, “I’m focused!”

Miyuki rolled his eyes, then noted the umpire coming out and getting into position. He started to step away, “Prove it with your pitching.”

“Sure thing, partner,” Sawamura raised his glove.

Miyuki grinned, raising his glove and hitting it against Sawamura’s before jogging over to the plate. He positioned his mask securely, adjusted his glove, and lowered into position. The batter, on his left, started taking a couple of warm up swings, and Miyuki looked back at Sawamura standing on the mound. He scanned him for signs of tension in his body language.

And… he saw very little, if any. 

Maybe it was because they had made it so far and Sawamura knew it was over after this. Or maybe it was because of something silly, like something the others had said or what he had had for breakfast that morning, but as Sawamura turned to face the fielders for his usual call, Miyuki knew one thing.

This was their ace.

“As we come together for one last final game, let us not worry about what is to come, or be sad about what is ending, but fight hard with all our might! Let’s show everyone that this is Seido’s baseball!” Sawamura had raised his hands, the ace number facing the crowd as he shouted so loud and noticeably everyone in the audience momentaily quieted to listen, “Balls will come flying your way, so fielders— please back me up and thank you in advance!” 

The team called back to Sawamura, and Sawamura turned to face Miyuki and the batter as the crowd— particularly Seido supporters— cheered. Sawamura had a grin on his face and passion in his eyes, and Miyuki felt excitement building inside him for the pitching that was about to come.

***

Sawamura was on fire. Before Miyuki knew it, three innings had flown by, with three up and down each time. Mostly strikeouts, but those who managed to make contact had been quick and easy outs overall as well.

He had been worried that it would start to get to Sawamura’s head, and that he’d unravel— especially because Seido’s offense wasn’t scoring any runs in their favor yet— but he continued to be calm and he didn’t seem to be wasting much energy either.

Every pitch was almost perfectly on point and the numbers were in great— excellent— form today. Pitch after pitch hit Miyuki’s glove with a satisfying thud, right where he wanted them. Miyuki wondered what had kicked Sawamura into such a high gear, especially because he was acting like himself too— loud and cheering for the others like usual— but he also tried not to overthink it, taking it as it was and focusing on the game.

“Miyuki,” the coach called him over, breaking his train of thought. Seido was up to bat, but there were several turns before him in the lineup, so they had a moment to talk. He walked over.

“How is Sawamura’s pitching? Is he overdoing it?” 

“No, Coach. As far as I can tell, he’s very calm and focused, not wasting too much energy,” Miyuki said honestly, “I’m a bit surprised— it’s a big game.”

The coach nodded, turning his head to look at Sawamura, who was on the far side of the dugout and shouting for one of the other players excitedly.

“Let me know if anything changes,” the coach said after a long moment.

“Yes, sir,” Miyuki responded, though he thought it unlikely. And… maybe a tiny part of him hoped this energy would keep up as well. He returned to his spot on the bench. 

He knew from the first moment he caught for Sawamura that he’d be an interesting pitcher to catch for in the future, but he thought similarly about many pitchers he met. At first, their pitches were interesting, just because most people had a unique style on a standard pitch, but eventually Miyuki would feel restricted by their lack of growth or limited arsenal of pitches, even if he knew the pitchers themselves couldn’t help it. It was just part of baseball and natural limitations.

Not Sawamura, though.

Sawamura had been exciting to catch for from day one, and now he was even more exciting. It was unlikely Miyuki would ever meet someone who had so many different pitches and variations to work with, and who could put so much energy and passion into everything he did. He was both skilled and fearless, which was a monster of a combination once trained properly, like Sawamura had been these past couple of years.

He really hoped Sawamura would think about going pro sometime.

The thought struck him suddenly, and rather unexpectedly. Since when was he sentimental like this? And why did he care what Sawamura did in the future? And anyway, it was a long shot—

“Oi, you okay there?” 

Kuramochi’s question broke him out of the sudden, confusing spiral of his mind, and he quickly smirked at the shortstop, “Yeah, all good.”

“You thinking up strategies for us hitting off this pitcher?”

“Ah… something like that,” Miyuki knew his mind should be focused on that, so he humored Kuramochi, “Do you have anything in mind?”

And as they talked, Miyuki’s mind was able to focus on the task at hand instead of the uncertain future. 

***

The sharp clang of a base hit was for the opponent’s side before Seido got to experience such a thing. The opponent’s cleanup had gotten a nice piece of Sawamura’s changeup, sending it right over second base and into the outfield and allowing the batter to take first. It was the first real hit that had been allowed so far, in the fifth inning. 

Miyuki saw Sawamura’s shoulders sag a bit after the runner made it, and thought it was as good a time as any to use a timeout. They hadn’t used any so far, after all. He made his way up to the mound.

“Hey, don’t—” he began to say, but Sawamura cut him off.

“Sorry, Cap! I really wanted this to be a no-hitter for you, but I guess that was ambitious,” Sawamura said, an annoyed expression on his face as he seemed to glare daggers at the runner on first, “I’ll aim for no runs instead!”

“You— what?” Miyuki found himself at a loss, trying to make sure he had heard Sawamura right. Not just a no-hitter, but a no-hitter for him? What was he even talking about?

“Wouldn’t it be a no-hitter for the whole team?” Miyuki finally put together his words, trying to follow the strange thought process. Sawamura looked at him and grinned.

“Sure, but especially you and the other third years. Ah, well— can’t be helped now!”

Miyuki shook his head and sighed, “You’re really strange, and an idiot. Anyway— you’ve been pitching fine, so don’t worry about the runner.”

“I know, because you’ll handle him,” Sawamura said, still grinning. He barely seemed tense at all, but Miyuki hoped he wasn’t secretly straining to keep his cool or something. It was unlikely he could act that well— he was Sawamura— but still.

“Yeah— and the lineup will get some runs in soon,” he added. Sawamura gave an enthusiastic nod, and Miyuki turned to walk back toward the plate. Really, Sawamura probably didn’t even need that timeout, with how he was acting… though it was probably better to be safe than sorry.

Miyuki settled back behind the plate, and after glancing at the batter, called for a pitch low and away. Sawamura nodded, glanced at the runner on first, and got into position. He wound up and threw.

Miyuki saw the runner begin moving just as Maezono shouted “Steal!” Sawamura didn’t flinch, and the ball flew right where Miyuki wanted it. 

The batter swung and missed at the same moment. 

As soon as the ball hit his glove, Miyuki was on his feet, and Sawamura ducked down as Miyuki threw the ball hard and fast to second. Kuramochi easily tagged out the runner.

The whole sequence was over in a matter of seconds. 

“OUT!”

“Yeah, that’s Miyuki Kazuya!” Sawamura cheered as Kuramochi cackled with glee. Miyuki grinned and held up his hand with one finger.

“One out!”

Two pitches later, it became two outs with a strikeout.

Could baseball be any more fun than this?

***

The sixth inning came and went, and there were still few hits and no runs for either team. Sawamura was still doing extremely well, but Miyuki could tell he was beginning to feel it. Any human would after pitching this long, even with careful conditioning and energy conservation, especially with the lack of runs and the mental pressure that came with that.

Of course, Sawamura always seemed to be a special case when it came to the mental part of baseball. Miyuki thought back to Sawamura’s first year when they had discovered Sawamura had the yips after the tragic loss to Inashiro in the summer. Many people didn’t come out of a mental block like that. In many ways, it was worse than a physical injury. 

Miyuki knew that it was a small miracle that Sawamura had overcome it. The team didn’t think about it much anymore, but Miyuki still had nights where he would sit up awake, wondering what he could have done better for Sawamura in those moments during the Inashiro game or after the fact. He hadn’t known what to do at the time, but he wished he had. 

But, regardless of what could have been done, he also recognized that Sawamura was stronger because of it, now able to pitch with great control in many different spots. 

Now, it was the bottom of the seventh, and it was Seido’s third-to-last chance to bat and score. They didn’t want to go into extra innings because it raised other variables and amped up the pressure. Plus, after his mind had wandered back to Sawamura’s yips briefly, Miyuki didn’t want to put that strain on Sawamura at all, no matter how strong he had proven himself to be.

“Sawamura-senpai, do you want another drink?” Okumura was sitting beside Sawamura on the bench, and Miyuki had to appreciate how the first year catcher already took his job of taking care of the pitchers very seriously. Especially Sawamura.

“I’m okay, thanks,” Sawamura said, leaning back against the bench. He was continuing to yell support loudly to the others, but anyone could see he was becoming more subdued in the moments in between, feeling more and more tired.

“We’ll score soon, I know it,” Okumura said quietly, and his voice was so confident and sure even Miyuki felt a spike of motivation.

“Of course we will,” Sawamura replied without hesitation, “I’m not worried.”

Miyuki knew Sawamura believed it, from the bottom of his heart. 

And as he strapped on his batting gloves and put on his helmet, readying for his turn to bat, he was ready to prove Sawamura and Okumura right. He stepped out of the dugout, squinting slightly at the bright sunlight, and then turned and looked at the pitcher, who had just managed to get Shirasu out. The band’s song for Miyuki’s rally began to play, but he barely heard it. 

As he made eye contact with the pitcher, he hoped he communicated the sentiment he was feeling properly with his gaze alone.

You’re going down. Right here, right now.

A twisted part of him kind of hoped the way the pitcher stepped back slightly was him flinching. There were two outs, so the odds were in the pitcher’s favor, really.

Except for the fact that he was facing Miyuki, who was ready to settle this and support his team’s ace. 

He stepped into the batter’s box, getting into position, and waited for the pitch. It came a second later, breaking and fast and too low. A curveball. 

“Ball!” The umpire called.

Miyuki stepped back, taking a second to assess as he usually did. This pitcher had an unusually deep arsenal of pitches, similar to Sawamura, but he tended to rely on his curveball and fastball the most. The fastball had been giving the whole team trouble with the pitcher’s control and speed, but this late in the game….

He stepped back into the box and the pitcher threw the second pitch. This one curved again. A second curveball in a row? And far off to the outside. 

“Ball!”

If the curveball wasn’t working, the battery would likely fall back onto what they were best at. Miyuki had faced the fastball a couple of times now. He could hit it.

He would hit it.

The third pitch came, low and fast, but very straight and definitely in a spot he could hit. He tracked it and swung.

His bat made a terrific clang, and the ball flew high and fast into the air. He glanced after it and started running as it flew farther… farther…

A homerun.

Miyuki couldn’t help the grin that came to his face as he heard the Seido dugout erupt into cheers. He raised his fist briefly and ran around the bases. Maezono was waiting when Miyuki crossed home, giving him a high five that Miyuki didn’t hesitate to return. 

“NICE ONE!” Maezono shouted.

“Yeah, Miyuki!”

“Captain!”

“Let’s go!”

The cheers from the dugout and the enthusiastic high fives and pats on the back he got as he entered made Miyuki feel very proud. He had helped the team, as their captain and cleanup, and now their burden was easier.

“CAP!” Sawamura practically jumped on him, but Miyuki stepped back just in time, and Sawamura stumbled past him before straightening and giving him an annoyed glare. Miyuki could see, however, that Sawamura was reinvigorated, and there was a bit of relief in his expression and demeanor now.

“That was for you, ace,” Miyuki told him, holding out his fist.

Sawamura’s eyes widened and then he grinned, raising his own fist and bumping Miyuki’s, “I’ll defend it with all I have.”

Miyuki didn’t doubt it, and the end— a happy one— seemed very close.

***

Seido didn’t get any more runs that inning, and in the top of the eighth, the opponent’s batters had more spirit and got a couple of solid hits off Sawamura, leading to a few moments where runners were in scoring position.

Sawamura was bothered, but he didn’t waver too much. Miyuki helped get one runner out during a steal, and Sawamura struck out the next batter. The third out was when the next batter hit all the way to the outfield, but it was caught by Tojo.

And they entered the bottom of the eighth. 

If they could gain more runs and then maintain their lead in the ninth, they’d win. 

Everyone was extremely enthusiastic, but there was another kind of intensity in the air as each prepared to get up to bat. Like everyone couldn’t quite believe they were this close, and were holding their breath. Miyuki knew that despite his best attempts, his own mind was going there, just a little bit.

This spell was temporarily broken when Sawamura— of all people— got a rather impressive base hit into left field, making it to first when there were two outs. 

No bunting, no fielding error, an actual hit.

“Sawamura, you idiot!” Kuramochi called out, “Why haven’t you done that before?”

“Nice hit, Eijun-kun!” Shouted Kominato.

“Nice job connecting!” Maezono declared.

And Miyuki just started laughing at the irony of it all. Sawamura, who had come to Seido with little proper training or experience at all, hadn’t just improved his pitching, but his batting too? It seemed too good to be true. Sawamura was just pulling out all his cards today, for whatever reason. 

“Uh oh, Sawamura broke him!” Maezono exclaimed, seeing Miyuki laughing.

“No,” Miyuki said, recovering himself, “No, I’m fine.”

The leadoffs hit well, allowing Sawamura and then Kuramochi to come home for runs two and three on the board. As soon as he crossed home, Sawamura began bragging about his hit in usual Sawamura fashion.

“Did you see it?” He was asking every player, even though everyone had already acknowledged and congratulated him. Miyuki rolled his eyes, wondering how long this would last, and then Furuya spoke up.

“It was a fluke, you know— you never hit like that normally.”

“What did you just say?!” Sawamura turned on him. 

Miyuki cackled, finding the whole thing hilarious as Kuramochi and Kominato both stepped in to put a stop to the argument a minute later. He found he was more entertained than annoyed by how loud and obnoxious they all were. It was familiar, bonds formed after months and years of working hard together for a sport they all loved. They all could get on each other’s nerves and they all competed against each other at times, but they all loved baseball, and somehow, that was enough.

Miyuki wondered if he’d ever get to have a team like this— teammates like this— ever again.

In the end, Shirasu got out after a long at-bat with many fouls, ending up hitting the ball right to the pitcher, but nobody really minded, especially when they realized how close they were.

It was the top of the ninth, the last rally.

Three outs away from a national title.

“Sawamura,” Coach Kataoka turned to the pitcher, and the whole dugout held its breath, waiting for what the coach had to say.

“Are you good to pitch?” He asked.

“Yes, Boss!” Sawamura said.

“Good. Then finish it, ace.”

Sawamura’s expression held so many emotions, Miyuki couldn’t imagine what he was feeling after coming so far. Miyuki didn’t even know what he himself was feeling, his heart moving unusually fast for the end of a baseball game. A glance around told him his other teammates were likely feeling or thinking similarly, hopeful and energized. 

But he clearly saw the one thing they needed, and it was in Sawamura. It was radiating from his whole self as he stepped onto the field in front of all of them, confident and determined. It was bleeding through every word and encouragement he shouted back at the team as they all followed onto the field, trusting in his pitching completely. It was painted clearly across his back in the bold and noticeable number one he had worked so tirelessly for.

It was the determination and spirit of the ace. 

Maybe it was how contagious Sawamura’s energy was, but Miyuki had a feeling in his gut that didn’t come from a place of strategy or statistics or game calling. It was a feeling that came only from seeing that it was Sawamura on the mound with that number, and no one else. And that feeling was accompanied by a strong belief in one dream that almost seemed like a fact:

They were going to win. 

***

While the previous inning had been weaker for Sawamura, with more hits allowed due to more persistent and passionate batters, this last inning was the opposite. And it wasn’t for a lack of attempts and trying from the batters. In fact, they were swinging even harder.

Sawamura was somehow pitching even better than before. Miyuki wasn’t really paying attention to the board, but he was sure Sawamura hit new personal speed records.

He was giving his all, and he had incredible control as well.

The first batter was three strikes, having fouled it several times before being struck out swinging on Sawamura’s Number 7.

The second batter was trickier, fouling off even more than the first guy had, but in the end, Sawamura bested him with the changeup. 

The stadium was practically roaring at this point, everyone on their feet to see what would happen. The Seido dugout was screaming. Miyuki couldn’t even tell if Sawamura was tense, because his own heart was racing. The rational part of his brain was telling him to calm down and focus, but the rest of him realized how close they were.

The third batter stepped up to the plate. Miyuki knew by the look in Sawamura’s eyes that this would be their last out, no matter how hard the player fought. The batter looked tense and nervous, and Miyuki couldn’t blame him.

It was the end, after all.

“Koshien’s crazy, huh.” He remembered Sawamura’s words from the start of the game, and he had silently agreed then, but even more so now. The rush he was getting from this was incredible. Something he knew he wouldn’t find in many other places after this.

He looked at Sawamura, standing on the mound, and wondered if he was feeling the same rush. He’d get another year of this if the team made it to Koshien again, Miyuki realized, and he suddenly, strangely, wished he wasn’t graduating just yet. He realized he didn’t want these pitches with Sawamura to be the last. They were too fun, exciting, and absolute works of art. 

But if they had to be the last, he could at least make them count. 

With these thoughts in mind, Miyuki called for the first pitch. 

Let’s confuse him. Give me the changeup.

Sawamura nodded, wound up, and threw.

Right where Miyuki wanted it, at a nice, disorienting speed.

“Strike!”

“Nice one,” Miyuki called, tossing it back. The batter stepped out, took a practice swing and a deep breath, and readied himself again. Miyuki considered, then made another call.

Number 9.

This time, while Sawamura’s pitch was on point, the batter swung. He fouled it, but the ball went far and high. Miyuki inwardly winced, and saw Sawamura sigh in relief when it was called foul.

But they were at two strikes. 

And this batter, so far, had aimed at the breaking balls. If he swung at fastballs, they were ones in tricky positions. He was one of the batters who had hit some of Sawamura’s pitches earlier, and he was likely expecting something tricky and difficult to hit like he had seen in the entire game so far. 

A crazy thought came to Miyuki’s mind, and he found himself grinning under his catcher’s mask as he signed the pitch he wanted to Sawamura.

Sawamura’s face broke into a grin too, and he nodded. So much for a poker face, but it didn’t really matter. Miyuki knew, any other pitcher, no matter how much they trusted him, would at least question if not deny this pitch and this play. It was risky and perhaps a bit reckless. 

But not Sawamura.

Sawamura didn’t back down from dangerous yet beautiful pitches like this. That was part of what made catching for him so much fun. 

Miyuki got ready, holding his glove in position, and Sawamura wound up and threw.

A 4-seam fastball, right down the center. Fast and hard and definitely one of Sawamura’s best. 

They got the batter looking.

For a second, there was a pause where Miyuki felt that he wasn’t breathing, and then the umpire called it. 

“Strike three! Out! GAME SET!”

The crowd erupted, and the Seido players rushed from the field and dugout. Miyuki stood up, pulling off his catcher’s mask and watching as Sawamura was practically tackled by his teammates. He felt like he was in a daze. 

They had done it.

They hadn’t just gone to Koshien.

They had won it.

How the heck was he blessed enough to end his high school baseball career like this?

“MIYUKI KAZUYA!”

Miyuki didn’t see Sawamura running toward him until he was already there, this time successfully jumping on top of him and bringing him to the ground on top of home plate, causing Miyuki to drop both his glove and his mask. He grunted and tried to sit up, even with Sawamura on his chest, sort of hugging him but really just sitting on top of him.

“Sawamura—”

“We did it,” Sawamura said from on top of him, his face hovering over his. He was grinning, but his eyes were wet with tears, “We did it,” he said again.

Miyuki had never cried over baseball, or at least it had been years since he had. He hadn’t cried over bullying or losses in middle school. He hadn’t cried when Seido missed their ticket to Koshien again and again. He hadn’t cried over his injury. 

But in this moment, everything set in. Sawamura, the pitcher who had fought for so long and so hard to be able to carry the ace number, who had overcome so many things including the yips to get here, who had literally just carried this team to a win with excellent pitching, was crying about how they all had done it. He should’ve been more proud of himself alone, but then Miyuki put it together. He realized he knew why Sawamura had been so on fire today, even though Sawamura had, in hindsight, been pretty obvious about it. It wasn’t just the fact that this was the last game of the tournament.

This was his— Miyuki’s— last high school game.

That was what had made Sawamura pitch like there was no tomorrow, because there wasn’t.

The idiot. 

Tears blurred his own vision as he sat up, pushing Sawamura off him and then hugging him tight and pressing his face against the pitcher’s shoulder. Sawamura stiffened briefly, but returned the embrace. Miyuki realized that as stupid as it felt, he deeply appreciated it. He loved catching Sawamura’s pitches, and it had been a powerful and beautiful sendoff. 

“Thank you,” Miyuki managed to say as tears spilled down his cheeks, allowing himself this moment.

“I tried to pitch my best, with it being the last game,” Sawamura said, clearly sobbing much harder while speaking.

“I know,” Miyuki held tighter, “You’re an idiot,” he sniffed a bit, “But I know.”

“You’re mean,” Sawamura said with a wet laugh, pulling back. They were both sitting on the ground still, and the others were still around the mound, cheering and laughing, either having not noticed Sawamura and Miyuki yet or giving them a moment. The team would have to line up soon.

“That was the best game I’ve ever caught for a pitcher,” Miyuki said honestly, ignoring Sawamura’s previous comment, “You delivered, like an ace should.”

Sawamura ducked his head, and Miyuki lifted his glasses and wiped his own tears away, not wanting the whole team to know he had cried. He got to his feet, then helped Sawamura up. As he looked at the determined, if emotional, second year that stood before him now, he thought back to what he had told the kid years ago, when they first met.

“The best pitches are works of art produced by the pitcher and catcher working as one.”

And he knew that the art couldn’t get much better than what he had just seen.

“You let me know if you ever decide to go pro, alright?” He told Sawamura as they started walking toward the others gathered around the mound. Sawamura turned to him sharply, surprised, and then grinned.

“Will do, partner.”

This was the last game of high school, but perhaps it was just the end of an era. Miyuki had a feeling that with Sawamura’s talent and his spirit, he’d attract enough attention to lead to a baseball career eventually. His control of such a variety of pitches would be hard to find in most graduating high school pitchers, even aces. 

So when he got there, Miyuki would be waiting.