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They know.
That is the only thought ghosting through his head, leaving him restless and scared.
They know.
He simply wants to run, to hide and never get out again because what else is there to do than run? Around the fields, around the diamond, again and again until his cloths were sticking to his skin, drenched in sweat but he would keep on.
They told him to stop but it only made him run faster, “I don't deserve your worry” always present at the back of his mind, “I don't deserve this team”.
It is so easy for him to believe his own words, bitterness and regret and loathing dripping from his tongue, spilling from his mouth with every heavy pant and suppressed sob. Close to choking, even out there on a field like there is no air in the world left for him. After his failure.
The sound of a baseball hitting a helmet, the crunch of a head hitting the ground.Haunting him, ripping him out of his sleep. The picture of a deadball hitting the fence, far too gone for even the best catcher to reach for, his blurred vision when he was guided off the mound.
He broke.
They know it is his fault.
Yet they are nice, comforting, helpful, worried. It makes him even more sick to his stomach.
Because it feels even more unfair like this.
This all is not fair.
This team that was suppose to be the best team ever, every single one of them that was suppose to win.
That was suppose to go to Koushien.
But they didn't. They lost, everyone of them.
And they will leave, grieving that they weren't able to stand on national ground after three years of training, three years of devotion and desire, three long years in vain now. They didn't.
How?
How was he suppose to ever repay them? To ever make up for the things he did? The chances he ruined?
The dreams he had shattered with this one pitch? Staring at his left hand in silence, Eijun memorizes every callous like a map to guide him, as if it will show him answers for things that no one dared to ask.
Why?
He doesn't know. And it feels like this will torture him further because yes, Eijun will never know.
***
He is absentmindedly poking in his bowl of rice that seems way too full for himself to eat, chopsticks untouched. It feels like he has forgotten how to eat, his stomach twisting and aching with a lack of appetite that makes him sick just looking at the food infront of him.
Slowly, the pitcher shoves his tray away, forcefully ignoring the concerned looks of Haruichi and Toujou, not making eye contact with anyone as he leaves the cafeteria, weakly stumbling through corridors and doors and outside paths, making his way to his room. Once he is inside, he crashes down on his bunk bed with just enough energy left to get out of his shoes along the way and buries himself under his blanket.
It is agonizingly quiet, silence creeping into his head to recreate pictures that makes him squeeze his eyes and grit his teeth so hard he got a headache and all he just wants is to rest, exhaustion washing over him and lulling him into a restless sleep.
***
The air smells of grass and dirt, of rain that's swallowing the campus in gentle sounds, the calming beat of raindrops on a roof, on pavement and railings. His footsteps are resounding just as well, soaked and splashing through puddles, hard against the soft of the summer rain, but Eijun doesn't care.
Eyes cast to the ground, following the same path, the same lap for the up tenth time, his legs carry him across the field with no intention to stop, even when his heartbeat is thrumming in his head like it is about to split in halves; even when his ears go deaf from the rush of blood pumping through his veins; even when his lungs are burning and his muscles sore and he thinks he could no longer see where the ground begins and the night sky ends, the horizon just a blurred line of washed-out colors.
He isn't quite sure whether he trips or if his legs give in at some point when he feels himself colliding with the wet mud, his face in the dirt, hands cold and legs unresponsive. But maybe that's where he is suppose to be so he simply accepts it, gives in to his tired bones and his heavy eyelids because he just really doesn't care anymore. Somewhere, Eijun thinks he hears his name being shouted but not having the energy to answer, he remains silent.
Someone comes to his side, presses warm fingers to his cold forehead and the next thing he feels is himself being pulled into a hug.
He is standing, somehow, his body weakly pressed against warm arms.
Eijun wants to stay there but he told himself he shouldn't.
***
Eijun's hand reaches out to brush over familiar white leather, red stitched imprinted into his heart and soul, his core.
He flinches at the memories when his fingertips felt the familiar material and it is like a lump in his throat is suddenly taking his air away and a stinging in his eyes that makes him move away from the ball as if it burnt him.
That's not how it's suppose to be, he thought, but that's for the best. In his room, he locks away his mitt in the depths of his drawer.
His jersey, the number 20 present on perfectly white fabric like mockery, glares at him from his counter.
Eijun closes his eyes, he turns around and leaves the room.
***
He manages to find excuses to stay in bed during lunch, saying that he has a stomachache that isn't even half a lie, his legs weak but once Kuramochi closes the door room behind him with a worried expression, Eijun gets up to run to the bathroom.
Upon arrival, the first thing he does is throwing up, barely managing to crash one stall and reaching a toilet before the rush of nausea overcomes him.
Breathing heavily, sobs shaking his body without restrain since he has no more power to hold them back, the stays like this until he no longer knows just how much time must have passed before he manages to get up again to return to his room.
***
Eijun didn't want to let things end like this. He wanted to pitch, wanted to play with the third years and stand on the mound, confident and strong, with the ace number proudly shining on his back. Looking down on his hands now fills him with dread and fear, because what if the could never pitch again?
What if those days here at Seidou are over now? Loosing the spot in the team, the spot at school, his friends and his dream.
But he deserved it, right? He was at fault for their loss after all.
Wakana still messages him frequently, but Eijun doesn't have the strength to answer.
To tell her. Tell his friends that he betrayed them. That he left them. That it was in vain because now Eijun is worthless.
He had failed them all.
Seidou and Akagi, everyone.
***
It came slowly, along the path of self-hatred and fear. The pitcher began to eat less, to feel sick more often, running more laps as if it could push away all these thoughts of lost matches and deadballs and crunching noises that made him remember what he did. Staring lifelessly at his meals, giving one or two tries at maximum before he got up and left for his room, saying he's still full from last evening and will eat more later. He knew that once his teammates would find out that they would be worried, that they would watch out for him. But the thought alone now makes Eijun cringe, makes him tired.
***
He's shivering. Hunched over the rim of the toilet that he barely managed to reach in time for a wave of nausea to overcome him. He's shivering so much that it brings tears to his eyes, his throat sore and his legs weak from his nightly run, sweat sticking to his skin like a blanket. Eijun tries to breath but all that escapes his lips are sobs and pants and strangled noises of holding back another rush of dizzyness. Faintly, he hears the door being opened, several footsteps speeding up to his stall and he prays Please leave, but a moment later he feels strong arms around his chest, heaving him up and supporting him as his legs give in .
*~*~*~*~*~*
It's around 2am when Kazuya wakes up after a dreamless slumber, far too tired to consider it rest and so he gets up, something twitching in his guts that felt like foreboding. Pushing the uneasy feeling away, he leaves his room quietly to cool down a little in the fresh night air when he passes the half-closed door of the restroom.
If anything, it is by pure chance that he hears the noises, light sobbing, heaving, panting, and it's like a pang in the back of his head urging him inside before he can even think about the situation, making a bee line for the first stall to find a shivering figure on the floor.
A familiar head of brown locks hanging low and it's as though someone punches Kazuya straight into his stomach as he kneels down and grabs the collapsed pitcher around his chest to pull him up – it's as though he forgets how to breath when he feels his underclassman's rip bones through the thin fabric of his t-shirt that's sticking to him and how easily he can lift him up.
The catcher holds him there for a moment, unsure what to do with the shivering mess of a boy pressed against his body, too fragile, and he wonders just how he could have been so blind.
Everyone could see the toll it was taking on Eijuns body, the guilt, restlessness in his bones.
But Kazuya didn't expect to see the pitcher so broken, so weak, not even a smirk or playful comment on his lips in this moment of realization.
Shit. I messed up.
He carries Eijun then, or more like supporting his shaking frame, guiding him outside of the restroom and quietly along the floor to Kazuya's room that was thankfully empty over the weekend, no sound of protest from Eijun as he closes the door after entering.
Kazuya gently places the exhausted pitcher on his bed and now it only hits him just how frail he really is, getting a good look at dim eyes rimmed by black circles, his features small and thin, lighter than a teenage boy on a school for baseball should be.
I was there the whole damn time.
After a short while of just staying by his side quietly, Eijun calms down and gets a hold of himself, his shivering less present, breaths coming in a less panicked rhythm. Kazuya dares to speak then.
“So, you've not been eating after all.”, is what cuts through the silence of the room.
He doesn't expect an answer from the other boy so he keeps on.
“You know, everyone is worried about you and adding an eating disorder to their list won't do any good-”
“I know..”, Eijun interrupts him, voice shaky. “I know.”
“Well, that's a good start. Then care to explain to me how you thought you'd manage to become the ace when you barely even manage to stay on your feed?”
Kazuya's tone is serious, he will not leave any room for discussions, but his worries get the best of him as he grabs Eijun's left hand, his dearest pitching hand, almost flinching away from how hard the bones feel against his skin.
“Stop beating you up on things that happened. I'm... no good with things like that, but don't ruin yourself, don't ruin your body over this.”
“I ruined everyone's chances, I- I took Koshien away from them”, a sob breaks through Eijun's raw lips, his gaze hidden behind his bangs.
“Sawamura. Everyone lost. And everyone ruined it. It won't change now to destroy yourself! Become stronger, if you want to make up for the things you blame yourself for.”
Kazuya gives Eijun's hand a light squeeze then, to reassure the pitcher, to bring him back to the present instead of being haunted by the past. He himself knew what it meant to feel loss, but he couldn't afford any of it to get to him – or his pitcher.
“Remember when you were chosen for first string instead of Chris? It's a burden you will carry, just like how we lost the game against Inashiro. But you have a reason to fight, right? A reason to move on. Don't forget that – you're gonna be the ace, right, partner?”
At that, Kazuya flashes him the brightest smile ever, full of trust, a fist against Eijun's chest like a promise.
And it feels as though Eijun's eyes return to their bright color, his body a little straighter, a little stronger - not a cure, per se. Because things like that aren't so easy to overcome.
Eijun nods then, slowly, collecting all his strenght. He'd do it, anyway.