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Sunday night finds Mei at a garish gay bar in east Shinjuku, nursing a sweaty vodka-rocks and glancing impatiently at his watch.
On the bar stool next to him are his team jacket and overnight bag. He just got back to Tokyo after this afternoon’s game in Sendai, and he hasn’t even had a chance to drop his stuff off at home—Kazuya messaged him while he was on the train and said he wanted to meet up here. Mei agreed, because he was feeling generous, but he’s starting to regret it.
He can’t imagine why Kazuya picked this bar. Kazuya has questionable taste when it comes to most things, but Mei’s taken him to enough nice places to make him appreciate a decently-made drink. This place has a sticky, laminated menu advertising something called neon jello shooters, which Mei can’t deign to contemplate. He lets out a breath, lifting his bangs off his forehead, and checks his watch again. Kazuya is twelve minutes late; he’s well within his rights to complain.
> where are you?? he texts.
Read, the screen tells him, after a few seconds. He swirls the ice in his glass and waits for a reply, but a minute passes, and there’s nothing. He huffs in annoyance and starts typing again.
> this place sucks
> hurry up and get here so we can go somewhere better
Finally the typing indicator appears.
> i’m here, Kazuya says.
Mei looks up and swivels his head around, but he can’t get a clear view of the door through the crowd. A burly man jostles his arm and gives a pointed look at the barstool he’s occupying with his things, but Mei ignores him and looks back at his phone.
> where? he asks.
> i’m at the bar
> i saved you a seat
> i know, Kazuya replies.
> i see you
Mei still can’t see Kazuya, but whatever—he figures Kazuya will find him. He turns back toward the bar just as his phone buzzes again.
> i was thinking, Kazuya says.
> want to find out if you’re right?
Mei frowns. > right about what?
There’s a pause, and then: > this, Kazuya sends. It’s a reply to a message—an old one, Mei realizes, as he taps on it and the screen scrolls up.
It’s from last week, when Kazuya was on the road in Osaka and Mei was at home. Their schedules have been shit this week; Mei’s team left for a tour through Hokkaido and Sendai two days before Kazuya’s got back, meaning he hasn’t seen Kazuya in more than a week. All the more reason why he wants Kazuya to hurry up and get here, instead of sending cryptic messages about…
He stares at the message, then scrolls up, his frown deepening, to see it in context. It was their anniversary, he remembers now, as much as they have an anniversary. A few years ago Mei figured out the date of their first kiss and told Kazuya they were going out to dinner to celebrate. It was a stretch—it wasn’t like they actually talked about dating back then, and they saw far less of each other in high school—but to his surprise, Kazuya didn’t argue. They’ve marked the occasion every year since then, as much as they can with their schedules.
Anyhow, they really ought to celebrate this one belatedly, he thinks. Like he told Kazuya, it’s a special date.
kazuya
> ten years?
> hahaha are you serious?
mei
> yes?
> it was the last summer of middle school, we were 14
> we’re 24 now.
kazuya
> god, you’re right
> jeez, we were 14?
> no wonder my dad thought you were a bad influence
mei
> me???
> you started it
kazuya
> did i?
mei
> like you don’t remember
> you know, you’re lucky you got to me when we were young
> i thought your dorky confession was cute then
> you never grew out of being a dork though
kazuya
> you still seem to like me alright
mei
> well, it’s too late NOW
> i’m just saying, kazuya
> if we met as adults you wouldn’t have a chance with me
It’s this last message that Kazuya’s directed him to. Mei pauses. He’s still trying to figure out what to make of it when a familiar voice comes from behind him. “Excuse me,” Kazuya says. “Are you saving this seat for someone?”
Mei turns around.
For a split second, he’s actually not sure the man behind him is Kazuya. He’s wearing a suit, one of the ill-fitting ones he got before Mei purged his closet, and his hair is tousled with gel. Strangest of all, he’s wearing contacts. Mei usually only gets to see Kazuya’s bare face when he’s fresh out of the bath, or in the few minutes after he’s put away whatever he’s reading in bed and before he puts his sleep mask on. Well, sometimes it’s more than a few minutes. Sometimes Mei distracts Kazuya away from his book and pulls Kazuya’s glasses off himself, slides his hands into Kazuya’s hair and climbs into his lap and…
“I said, is someone using this chair?” Kazuya says. “I’d like to sit down.” He’s using polite language, Mei finally clocks, like he would with a stranger.
Mei’s lips curl into a smirk. Oh, he thinks. “Well, I was saving it for someone,” he says, slowly. “But apparently he’s decided to stand me up.”
“Oh, really?” Kazuya says, his eyebrows lifting. “Lucky for me, then.”
“Is it?” Mei moves his bag and jacket from the stool to a hook under the bar.
“Uh-huh. I was getting tired of standing.”
Mei gives an unimpressed snort as Kazuya climbs onto the stool and waves down the bartender to order a beer. You don’t even like beer, he stops himself from saying. He looks Kazuya over again, critically. With his head turned away, he really looks like a boring salaryman; the too-large cut of the suit hides the muscles in his arms and thighs. Mei doesn’t know what any of this is supposed to prove. He’d have no reason to give Kazuya a second glance like this.
“Thanks,” Kazuya says, as the bartender sets a draft beer down in front of him. Out of the corner of his eye, Mei sees him lift the glass and gesture it towards him. “Cheers?”
Mei gives him a disdainful look. “What’s there to be cheerful about?”
Kazuya smiles. He looks good without his glasses, Mei decides. He should wear contacts more often. “Well, it’s still the weekend,” Kazuya says. “Is that not enough to celebrate?”
Kazuya hasn’t had a weekend off in three months, Mei thinks, fighting an urge to roll his eyes. He’s really leaning into this dumb salaryman role. “What are you supposed to be?” Mei asks, taking a sip of his vodka. “An accountant or something?”
“I’m a salesman,” Kazuya says. “For a steel company.”
Creative, Mei thinks, and really does roll his eyes this time.
“What, is that too boring for you? What do you do?”
“You don’t recognize me?”
“Huh? Are you famous or something?”
Mei purses his lips.“You don’t watch baseball?”
“Nah,” Kazuya says, and gives him a shit-eating grin. “Not really interested in sports.”
“Is that so.”
“I just don’t get what the fuss is about.”
“Why,” Mei says, his voice rising, “do you think I’d possibly be interested in fucking someone who doesn’t like baseball?”
Kazuya’s eyebrows shoot up toward his gelled bangs. “Who said anything about that? I was just here for a drink.”
Mei presses his tongue to his teeth. If he tells Kazuya in earnest to drop the act, he’s pretty sure Kazuya will. He can take Kazuya to a decent bar, one of their regular ones, or maybe just hail a cab to take them home.
But Kazuya’s smiling like he thinks he’s winning this game, which he’s not, and Mei’s desire for a quiet night is outweighed by his desire to prove it.
“Who comes to a bar like this alone unless they’re looking to get laid?” he asks. “You could get a shitty beer anywhere.”
Kazuya laughs softly and takes a sip of his beer. “Alright,” he says, shifting on his barstool so he’s facing Mei. “You got me. Maybe I’ve been getting tired of being in my hotel room all alone. There’s only so much fun I can have by myself, you know?” he says, and winks.
Despite himself, Mei feels goosebumps rise on the back of his neck. He does know. It’s been one or the other of them in a hotel room this whole week, and now he’s thinking about two nights ago, lying on a squishy down pillow and too-stiff sheets with Kazuya’s voice smooth in his ear, close enough for him to pretend Kazuya was there.
Kazuya’s fingers touch his wrist on the bar, and it takes Mei a second to remember Kazuya is here, now. Kazuya is inches away from him, and this is the kind of loud, tourist-filled bar where no one would look twice if Mei leaned in and kissed him.
A smile plays on Kazuya’s lips, and Mei huffs out a sharp breath, annoyed. “You’re awfully forward,” he says, and looks down at their hands. “You’re not even going to ask me my name? Or better yet, buy me a drink?”
“You already have a drink,” Kazuya points out. It’s true; Mei’s barely sipped at his vodka. The NPB normally gives them Mondays off, but tomorrow he’s starting in a make-up game against the Lions.
“Well, you ought to buy me a better one,” Mei says. “Or are you such a shitty salesman that you can’t afford to? That would explain your suit.” He lets his eyes slide down Kazuya’s body and instantly regrets it. On second glance, Kazuya’s poorly-fitting clothes don’t disguise that much.
“I like this suit,” Kazuya objects, sounding briefly like himself. “It’s comfortable.”
“That’s the attitude you’re going to bring to this?” Mei huffs. “You want to be comfortable? You really are a shitty salesman.”
“Well then,” Kazuya says, tipping his head closer, his mouth near Mei’s ear. “If you hate my suit so much, maybe you should come back to my hotel room and take it off me.”
A burst of laughter rises up from Mei’s stomach as a shiver streaks down his spine; the two forces collide in his chest and leave him momentarily breathless. “Oh my god,” he gasps, “you are such a dork.”
“I’ve been told it’s cute,” Kazuya says, and grins. “What do you want to drink?”
“Surprise me,” Mei demands, and turns away so he can get a hold of himself. He’ll give Kazuya credit for timing his attack—it’s been long enough that he’s itching with anticipation to bring Kazuya home with him and strip that dumb suit off for real. Just a little longer, he decides; he’ll prove his point and then get what he wants.
“Here you go, sir,” the bartender says, and puts a drink down in front of Kazuya. Kazuya slides it over to Mei, who stares dubiously at it. It’s a highball glass full of something red, topped with two fluorescent cherries and a sprig of mint.
“What is this?”
“Shirley Temple.”
Mei wrinkles his nose. “Do I look like a child?”
“Well, you don’t seem to be enjoying that,” Kazuya says, nodding at his glass of vodka. “I thought I’d expand your range of options.”
In reality, Mei thinks, Kazuya knows he’s pitching tomorrow. He probably just wanted to order something Mei wouldn’t waste. Mei huffs a little, but he leans to take a sip from the striped paper straw poked into it. To his annoyance, it’s less cloying than he expects.
“Like it?” Kazuya asks.
Mei frowns. “It’s alright.”
“I had them add some bitters to balance it out.”
No wonder, Mei thinks, and takes another sip. He can taste it now, a hint of complexity under the sweet grenadine. “I’ll drink it,” he allows.
Kazuya smiles. “Does that mean I’ve earned some of your time?”
“I suppose,” Mei says. He puts his elbow down on the bar and rests his head in his palm. “So you’re a traveling salesman, hm?” he asks. “Do you have a wife back home, or something?”
…He doesn’t know where that question came from. He really does need to lay off the vodka. He almost laughs, but Kazuya just shakes his head.
“No,” he says. His mouth twitches. “No husband, either. I guess I’m on the road too much to settle down.”
“—Well, good,” Mei says, his tongue tripping just a little. “I wouldn’t want to think you’re that kind of guy.”
“How about you?”
How about him? Mei considers the question. I have a boyfriend, he thinks about saying. He likes saying it, especially when he really does get propositioned by strangers. But he’s not ready to turn Kazuya’s stupid flirtations down yet. “Newly single,” he says instead, and then smirks. “Actually, I think I might have just gotten dumped.”
“What, by the guy who stood you up?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What an asshole,” Kazuya says, his eyes sparkling.
“Tell me about it. Maybe I shouldn't be mad, you know? He was a total loser.”
“I hope he was hot, at least.”
Mei hums noncommittally. “He had a nice body, but the worst taste in clothes. And really ugly, nerdy glasses, too.”
“So a mixed bag,” Kazuya says, and smiles.
“Well, and that’s not even getting into his messed-up personality. He really knew how to annoy me.”
“Oh yeah?”
“But he was good in bed,” Mei says, as he pulls one of the cherries off its stem with his teeth. “I’ll give him that.”
“Hmm,” Kazuya says, and touches his wrist again—the inside of it, this time, his knuckle running over one of Mei’s veins. “Sounds like you’re going to miss him.”
Mei exhales and keeps his arm still. “I might,” he says finally.
“Well then.” Kazuya shifts his hand and replaces his knuckles with his thumb, rubbing back and forth over Mei’s pulse point. “Maybe you should let me take your mind off him.”
Mei shivers, and his lips part. Then he bites down on his tongue. He was on the verge of agreeing, he realizes, horrified. Having fun with this is one thing, but there’s no point if he lets Kazuya win.
“I don’t think so,” he says abruptly, and pulls his hand away. “I mean, you don’t even like baseball. That’s kind of a dealbreaker for me.”
“I could give it a try,” Kazuya says. “I might like it if you were playing.”
“Who said I was a player? Maybe I’m a TV announcer.” Mei smirks triumphantly.
“Nah,” Kazuya says immediately, not looking nearly as tripped-up as Mei hoped. His eyes flick obviously down to Mei’s chest, then all the way to his feet. “You have the body of a pro athlete,” he says. “Except you’re a little short.”
“Short?!” Mei repeats, indignant. “I’m not short! I’m in exactly the 50th percentile for the NPB!”
“Oh, well,” Kazuya says, grinning like an asshole. “My mistake. How would I know?”
Kazuya knows, of course, because Mei’s told him more than once. He had to bribe one of the team statisticians to figure it out exactly, but he did hit a growth spurt, like he always insisted he would, and now he’s… well, average. Kazuya, infuriatingly, is still two centimeters taller.
“If insulting me is some kind of pick-up tactic, it’s not going to work,” he says, narrowing his eyes. “I only respond to positive reinforcement.”
“Is that so.”
“All my coaches know that,” Mei huffs. “And my boyfriend did, too.”
“So you’re one of those guys who gets off on being told how well you’re performing?”
“I—no.”
“Seems like it’d be a lot of trouble to keep you happy.”
“No one said you had to,” Mei says, irritated despite himself.
“Well, I like a challenge.” Kazuya takes a sip of his shitty beer and gives him a sidelong half-grin. “I have a feeling you’d be worth it.”
A wave of heat goes through Mei’s chest. You know I am, he wants to say. “Well, you’re welcome to find out,” he says instead, and tilts his head back appraisingly. “But you’ll have to do better than this. Maybe buy me a decent drink next time. And take me someplace less…” he looks around and wrinkles his nose—“…sweaty.”
“Oh,” Kazuya says, and goes to push his non-existent glasses up like an idiot. Mei smirks, but Kazuya looks unfazed. “Is that all?”
“Uh-huh.” Mei sips from his vodka and then makes a face; it tastes awful after the sweet mocktail. He’s tired of drinking it, and he’s tired of being here, too. “I told you, this place sucks.” He puts a hand on the center of Kazuya’s back. “I’ve gotta go pee,” he says, and slides off the bar stool.
Kazuya lifts his eyebrows. “Alright.”
Mei goes to relieve himself in the bathroom and takes the opportunity to get his head straight. He’s tired, and pent-up, and not feeling particularly patient. When he goes back out he’ll pay the bill and tell Kazuya he’s done playing, and they’ll finally go home. He misses his own bed, the expensive sheets Kazuya got him for Christmas one year. Mei complained it was unromantic, more like a housewarming gift, but he came around on the idea once they broke them in. He lets out a breath as he zips himself back up. Yeah, he thinks, this game can wait.
He leaves the bathroom and rounds the corner back into the bar to see his things sitting unattended on Kazuya’s stool across the room. An uneasy premonition rises in his chest as he walks over.
“Hey,” he says, as the bartender takes Kazuya’s mostly-untouched beer. “What are you doing? Where did that guy go?”
“He paid up,” the bartender says, and tilts his head toward the bar. “For you, too.”
Mei looks down, expecting to see a receipt. What he sees instead is a couple of bills and a paper napkin sitting next to them. There’s something written in blue pen on the napkin, he realizes, and picks it up.
Nice meeting you – see you around? it says. Under that is scrawled Miyuki, and then… Mei’s mouth curls into a frown. It’s Kazuya’s phone number, the same one he’s had since they were kids. Outrage prickles under Mei’s skin.
“Did he leave?” he demands of the bartender, who just shrugs and collects the bills from the table.
“Looks that way.”
“Seriously?” Mei hisses.
The bartender raises his eyebrows a fraction. “Were you expecting him to wait?” He shakes his head. “Not that it’s my business, but if you’re looking to close the deal with someone, you might want to play less hard to get.”
“I—” Mei starts, and then decides he doesn’t actually want to explain himself. “Never mind,” he says, and grabs his stuff.
He thinks he might be able to catch Kazuya outside, but he realizes it’s hopeless as soon as he pushes open the door. Even on a Sunday night, this part of town is crowded enough that he can barely see the street past the stream of people flowing by. He grimaces. A cab is probably out of the question, too; he’ll have to take the subway.
> you suck, he messages Kazuya. > if I get pickpocketed out here you’re paying me back
He expects Kazuya to tell him to take care of his belongings, but his phone doesn’t buzz as he pushes his way toward the station. It’s not until he’s on the train that he checks and sees that the messages are marked read.
> seriously, he sends, > did you have to actually leave? His fingers pause on the screen. I did miss you, you know, he types out. Then he backspaces, deletes the last message without sending it, and puts his phone in his pocket. He doesn’t have to tell Kazuya that. He’ll make sure Kazuya knows when he gets home.
When he gets to their condo, though, the front door is locked. He opens it to find the lights off inside. “—Kazuya?” he calls. He wouldn’t really put it past Kazuya to be waiting for him here in the dark.
He walks from room to room, turning lights on, but gradually it becomes clear he’s alone. He wonders if he might have beat Kazuya home, but by the time he’s dumped his clothes out into the laundry, showered, and changed into his pajamas, he’s realized that Kazuya might not actually be planning to come back at all.
He climbs into bed and stares at his phone screen, his stomach tight. Read, his last message says. Kazuya isn’t missing, he’s just… not answering. Mei’s thumbs hover over the keyboard. I mean it, come home, he thinks about writing. He doesn’t think Kazuya would ignore that, but somehow it would seem like giving in.
He lets out a breath and slides further down in his smooth sheets. Kazuya’s still playing with him, he thinks. Of course he is. The read indicator taunts him from his screen. Kazuya wants him to know he’s reading; he’s just not replying, because… Mei sits up a little.
Because this isn’t how he told Mei to contact him. Mei flicks back to his phone’s home screen and opens his texting app. They always talk on LINE, these days, but of course Kazuya’s actual number is still saved in his phone. He’s about to start a new text message, but on an impulse his thumb moves to the call icon and presses down. He lifts the phone to his ear and holds his breath as it rings.
“Hello?” Kazuya answers, after a long stretch.
“You left,” Mei says, by way of greeting.
“Oh.” Mei can picture the dumb look on Kazuya’s face as he pretends to be surprised. It’s annoying how much the thought makes his chest ache. “Did you not want me to leave?” Kazuya asks. “You said I needed to do better.”
Mei draws in a slow breath through his nose. He can’t let his impatience show if he’s going to win this. “You do,” he says, “but you’d better not miss your chance.” He sniffs. “I have a lot of options, you know.”
“Really?” Kazuya’s voice takes on the sound of a smile. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have time to get out much, with your games and all.”
“Who said I have to get out?” Mei retorts. “I’ll have thirty thousand fans coming to cheer for me tomorrow. Not to mention the players on the other team. A lot of stuff can happen in locker rooms.” He’s mostly making that up—even he and Kazuya have enough sense not to mess around at either of their stadiums too often.
But Kazuya just hums in interest. “Hmm, I bet,” he says. “Well, I won’t keep you waiting long.”
Mei swallows. How long? he wants to ask. “Good,” is all he says.
“Sleep well,” Kazuya tells him, like he has the last few nights, murmuring it into his ear once Mei’s almost drifted off. Sleep well, Mei.
Mei’s hand curls into a ball at his side. “Sure,” he says, “I will.” He hangs up before he can give in to the urge to say more, then exhales and tosses the phone onto the nightstand. He flips onto his side so he doesn’t have to look at the empty spot next to him on the bed.
Kazuya has a lot of nerve, springing this on him, he thinks before he turns off the lights. But if he thinks Mei is going to be the one to call it off first, Mei’s going to make sure he regrets it.
*
The good thing about Kazuya irritating him is that Mei pitches best when he’s a little annoyed.
The game against the Lions the next night is one of the best he’s had all season: he strikes out nine batters and holds them scoreless through eight innings. He tries to protest when they pull him for the closer, certain he still has energy to throw more, but he’s overruled—probably for the best, he knows Kazuya would say. He watches until the end from the dugout, then goes to shower and change.
Despite not being allowed to finish the game, he’s in a good mood as he heads toward the car waiting for him outside. There are fans lined up against the barricade, calling out to him, and like usual he takes his time acquiescing to requests for selfies and signatures. It always annoys Kazuya how long it takes him to get home from a game, but whatever; the attention is half of the fun of being a star, and his team’s front office doesn’t mind.
Anyhow, Kazuya’s not waiting for him at home tonight. Mei scowls and finishes signing his name with a flourish on some kid’s baseball. He hands back the pen and is turning toward the car when he hears a voice call:
“Hey, over here.”
His head whips around before he’s even processed what it means that Kazuya’s voice is calling out to him here. His eyes flick over the straggling onlookers and catch on Kazuya standing behind the barrier in khakis and a blue polo shirt.
“Jeez,” he says as he hurries over. “What are you doing here?”
“I told you,” Kazuya says, and hands Mei a sharpie. “I didn’t want to keep you waiting.”
Mei looks down at the sharpie, then back up. Kazuya’s not wearing his glasses, he realizes suddenly. “Oh,” he says, his mouth curling.
“Or risk you getting distracted by some locker room business and losing interest,” Kazuya says, and winks. He produces a folded wad of lined paper from his pocket and holds it out.
Mei stares at it. “What’s that?”
“Paper?” Kazuya says, grinning. “For you to sign?”
“You want me to sign that?”
“Well, I didn’t have a ball,” Kazuya says, a ridiculous lie. “And I thought about buying your jersey inside, but they’re expensive.”
“Of course they are,” Mei sniffs. Then he backtracks. “Wait, inside? Were you—at the game?”
“Yeah.” Kazuya grins. “You were really good. I mean, as far as I could tell.”
A wave of stupid pride rises in Mei’s chest. He was really good, and of course Kazuya knows it. Kazuya normally just watches the recordings when he pitches.
“Well, I hope you had a good time.”
“Uh-huh,” Kazuya says. “I got a hot dog.”
“Good for you.” Mei caps the sharpie and drops it into Kazuya’s shirt pocket. “I’m not signing that,” he says. “Bring a ball next time.”
“Sure,” Kazuya agrees. “Next time I’m in town.” His eyes meet Mei's and stay there.
Mei hesitates. Kazuya’s leaving for Hiroshima tomorrow, he knows, and by the time he gets back… Mei will be heading to Nagoya. Shit, he realizes, this is the last time they’ll both be here for another week. He draws a breath.
“You know, my hotel’s not far,” Kazuya says, before Mei can say anything. “If you’d want to get a drink with me there.”
“Your—hotel?” Mei says, before he can stop himself. “That’s where you were last night?” Now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure where he thought Kazuya was. At a friend’s place, maybe. The idea of him getting a hotel in the neighborhood where he lives is somehow even more irritating.
“Of course,” Kazuya says, blinking innocently. “Where else would I have been?”
Mei exhales carefully. The fans taking pictures of him have thinned out; no one’s watching them now. He could follow Kazuya to his hotel, let Kazuya praise his pitching and buy him some dessert, maybe even stay the night. He wants to.
But if he wants to, he thinks, then so does Kazuya. He steps back from the barricade. “You know,” he says, “a hotel bar isn’t what I had in mind when I said you needed to do better.”
Kazuya’s eyebrows rise by a hair. “It’s a nice hotel,” he says.
“Uh-huh.” Mei puts on an unimpressed expression. “I’m sure it’s… fine.” He looks down at the watch on his wrist—another present from Kazuya. “But I’ve got to go,” he lies. Then he turns on his heel and heads toward the car. “Call me next time, if you want,” he says, glancing back over his shoulder. He’s a little disappointed that Kazuya doesn’t look more surprised, but the smirk on his face is good enough.
“Alright,” Kazuya says. “Next time.”
*
Next time comes sooner than Mei thinks. He spent Tuesday morning pacing sullenly around his condo, holding out hope that Kazuya would need to come home for a change of clothes before he left, but of course he didn’t. Now he really is gone; Mei just watched the recap of his last game in Hiroshima on TV.
He feels a little less agitated now that Kazuya’s actually out of reach, but his bad mood hasn’t diminished. He’s even more frustrated than before, and now he doesn’t even have the release of talking to Kazuya before he goes to bed.
Or so he thought. He’s staring into the depths of his fridge, wondering if he should take advantage of Kazuya’s absence by buying some junk food, when his phone starts to ring in his pocket. He pulls it out and blinks at it.
“What do you want?” he says when he picks up.
“I was wondering when you’d be free to get dinner with me,” Kazuya says. “Once I find someplace good enough for you, I mean.”
Mei frowns. “You can look up my schedule online.”
“Oh,” Kazuya says. “So you’re reserving your free time for me?”
“I—didn’t say that.”
“Uh-huh. Well, I’ll be in town tomorrow, but it looks like you’ll be gone. How about Sunday?”
Mei lets out a breath. Sunday they each have a day game, and the day off afterward. He’s not sure he can stand the thought of saying no. “I might be free then,” he allows.
“Say around eight?”
That’s how long it’ll take him to get home from Nagoya and changed and out somewhere after the game. “Alright,” he says, nonchalantly. He gives up on the fridge and swings the door shut. “If you promise to take me somewhere good.”
“Alright,” Kazuya says. “It’s a date.”
“Alright.”
Kazuya doesn’t say anything else, and Mei thinks he must be about to end the call. He doesn’t, though. The silence stretches.
Mei clears his throat. “So,” he says, “how was your day?”
Kazuya laughs softly. “You want to know about my day?”
“Or I could hang up on you.”
“My day was fine,” Kazuya says. “I won an account.”
Mei scoffs silently. Of course, Kazuya’s not going to tell him anything real. He knows what Kazuya means, though—his team beat Hiroshima 5-2. Mei already knows about that. “Really,” he deadpans. “Well, congrats.”
“Thanks,” Kazuya says. “What about you?”
“Nothing interesting,” he says. “I didn’t pitch today. And we lost.”
“Are those two things related?”
Mei huffs. “Maybe,” he says. “We need a better bullpen. The relievers are all too—” He cuts himself off and exhales. He already knows what Kazuya thinks, and he’s not going to get anything useful out of him now. “Anyhow,” he says, “it was fine. I went for a jog this morning. Got a massage.”
“Oh yeah?” Kazuya says. “That sounds like fun.”
“What, getting a massage? It was to loosen up my leg after pitching. It mostly hurt.”
“I meant giving you one,” Kazuya says. “Think I could try sometime?”
Mei bites his tongue. Kazuya’s given him more massages than he can count, but it sounds a lot more pleasant than it is. Kazuya is always fastidious about relieving tight spots and doesn’t hesitate to use as much pressure as he needs. “You wouldn’t know what to do,” Mei says. “It’s not just a back rub.”
“Well, I’d do my best,” Kazuya says. “At the very least I could help you relax.”
Mei draws a shallow breath. “Yeah?”
“Mhmm,” Kazuya says, his voice tilting with a smile. “I’ve been told I’m good with my hands.”
“You really suck at flirting,” Mei says, to cover the hitch in his breath. “Are you always this shameless?”
“Hmm,” Kazuya says. “Maybe I’m out of practice. I haven’t done anything like this in a while, you know.”
Mei narrows his eyes. “I thought you couldn’t settle down. You don’t have a different guy in every town you go to?”
Kazuya laughs. “Nothing like that.”
Mei huffs. “What a waste.”
“You think so?”
“It must be easy to meet people if you’re always traveling.”
“I guess,” Kazuya says. “I think I’d rather know I had someone waiting for me at home, though.”
Mei grips his phone a little tighter. “Really,” he says. “Well, that’s sweet.”
“You know,” Kazuya continues, “someone who’d cook me dinner, and do my laundry, and help me pack before I leave.”
Mei scowls and flings open a cabinet. “Well, I’m never going to do any of that.”
“Oh.” Kazuya sounds like he’s grinning. “Too bad.”
“Uh-huh. Maybe you should try someone else, if that’s what you want.”
“Hmm,” Kazuya hums. “How about someone I can talk to when I get home?” he says. “Someone who cares about the same things I do, and who can make me laugh, and doesn’t hold back when they give me advice? That’s what I really want.”
Mei’s eyes stop scanning over the shelf in front of him. “Is that all?”
“Well, and we’d have to be physically compatible, of course,” Kazuya adds. “But there’s only one way to figure that out.”
“And what would that be?”
“Hands-on demonstration,” Kazuya says. “The most important part of any sales pitch. Maybe I can give you one on Sunday.”
Mei feels his lower lip curl. “You’re moving awfully fast.”
“No point in wasting your time, is there?”
Mei considers. “I guess not.”
“Well, then,” Kazuya says. “I’ll come prepared.”
*
Sunday, Mei waits impatiently in front of the address Kazuya texted him earlier. He was hoping Kazuya might show some creativity, but when he looked it up he realized it was just one of their regular locations, a cocktail bar two streets from their condo. At least he knows the drinks are good, he thinks, and he didn’t have to bother with a cab.
Still, when Kazuya arrives, Mei makes a show of his disdain. “I thought you were going to impress me,” he says. “I’ve been here before.”
“Oh, well,” Kazuya says. “How would I know that?” He grins. “It’s one of my favorite places. Maybe we both just have good taste.”
“You have terrible taste,” Mei says, his eyes narrowing. “You’re still wearing that suit.” He’s got an even worse tie paired with it this time, green and purple stripes. Mei doesn’t know where they even sell ties like that.
“This is just to get a drink,” Kazuya says, ignoring him. “I’ve got somewhere else in mind for dinner.”
Mei sighs, long-suffering, but lets Kazuya open the door down into the underground bar for him.
He does like this place, he has to admit. It’s dim and hushed and feels expensive, with shelves behind the bar lit up in gold. The real reason he likes it, though, is the seating: high-backed plush chairs and loveseats that afford some privacy from the rest of the room. Kazuya always complains that he’s a liability when they drink in public, too likely to rest his head on Kazuya’s shoulder or curl an arm around his waist. Mei argues he’s perfectly good at restraining himself when he needs to. He just prefers it when he doesn’t.
“Good evening,” the host greets them. “Your usual table is open; would you like to be seated there?”
“Oh—yeah, thanks,” Kazuya answers. He looks back at Mei and flashes a grin. “See, I’m a regular.”
Mei smirks and follows him into the room. “Are you sure you’re not bringing dates here?” he asks as he sits down. “This seems awfully… romantic.”
“You think so?” Kazuya asks. “I just come here for the drinks.”
Mei huffs and makes himself comfortable on the velvet of their usual loveseat. Kazuya sits down next to him and hands him a menu, and Mei resists the temptation to lean a little closer. Kazuya smells good, he thinks, like the aftershave he wears sometimes when they’re going somewhere nice. Mei wonders if he packed it to bring with him on the road.
“You know what you want?” Kazuya asks.
Mei is plenty familiar with the menu, but he doesn’t feel like looking at it tonight. He tosses it onto the small table in front of them. “Order me something good.”
“Hmm,” Kazuya says. “Alright.”
When the waiter comes back to take their order, Kazuya engages with him about the menu while Mei pulls out his phone and checks his twitter feed.
“So,” Kazuya says, once the waiter has left. “Why don’t you tell me a little about yourself?”
Mei lets out a huff of air. “What do you want to know?”
“I told you what I was looking for,” Kazyua says, and shrugs. “How about you?”
“Hmm,” Mei says. “I want someone who makes things interesting.”
Kazuya raises an eyebrow. “More interesting than this?”
In fairness, Mei supposes there’s something interesting about being on a faux-first date with his boyfriend of ten years. Still, he nods. “You know,” he says. “Someone who can surprise me.”
Kazuya seems to consider that for a moment. Then his eyes flick away and come back to settle on Mei intently. After a second, he leans in close, his lips brushing over Mei’s cheekbone and stopping just next to his ear. Mei waits, his breath drawn, but Kazuya doesn’t say anything.
“What,” Mei finally scoffs, “are you—?”
Kazuya’s fingertips touch his chin and tilt it to face him, and Mei’s voice stops. Then Kazuya tips his head in further and gently kisses his lips.
Mei’s spine straightens, and a shiver floods down his back. Kazuya hasn’t pulled away; his face is close enough that Mei can still feel his warm breath; can still inhale the familiar scent of it. Kazuya smiles, then, and Mei pulls his head back.
“You’re supposed to wait until the end of a date to do that,” he complains.
“Well, I didn’t feel like waiting.”
Mei purses his lips. His heart, he realizes, is beating urgently in his chest, spurring on his desire to lean in again and even the score. He could still catch Kazuya by surprise, he thinks.
But before he can, the waiter returns, and Kazuya turns away to make room for the ice bucket he sets on the table.
Mei lifts an eyebrow. “Champagne?” he asks, as Kazuya hands him a delicate glass. “I thought this was a cocktail bar.”
“I think our first kiss is worth celebrating properly, don’t you?”
Mei can’t help the laugh that escapes his chest as the waiter pops the cork of the champagne. There’s no way Kazuya planned that, he thinks. That’s just what Kazuya does, strategizes on the fly. Mei does admire his skill in that.
He admires Kazuya’s taste in champagne, too, although he thinks he deserves most of the credit himself. The label is from the vineyard he and Kazuya went to in France a few years back, the wine-tasting itinerary he insisted on. Kazuya professed not to have any opinions on the wine, but apparently he did pay attention to what Mei liked.
“Cheers,” Kazuya says, lifting his glass once the waiter has gone.
Mei lifts his own glass and clinks it tolerantly against Kazuya’s. “You’re supposed to say what we’re drinking to,” he says, and then smirks. “To more firsts to come?”
“Hmm,” Kazuya says, smiling behind the rim of his champagne. “How about to finding what we’re looking for?”
It must be the lack of glasses making Kazuya’s eyes feel more intense than usual, Mei thinks. It’s unbelievably aggravating that Kazuya’s stare is making his neck flush hot.
“Whatever,” he says, and takes a sip.
The champagne turns out to be far too drinkable; Kazuya continues to fill his glass as he distracts him with conversation. Kazuya asks him what exactly is so bad about his suit, and from there they talk about fashion trends, and Mei’s recent commercial shoots, the fragrance brand he did a campaign for. Kazuya asks him then about the scents that remind him of his childhood, and he tells Mei his own. Ground steel and mud after it rains, he says, and Mei is hit with the image of being twelve years old again, sitting on the shaded grass behind the factory at Kazuya’s house, not knowing what to do with the half-formed feelings trying to break out of his chest.
They’re both lucky they met back then, he knows. Maybe this would have been the outcome no matter how they met—it’s not like Kazuya would have failed to catch his eye, playing in the same league—but the thought of missing out on the years they’ve shared is detestable. Anyone else would just have been a waste of his time.
He’s contemplating this when he realizes that Kazuya is refilling his glass with champagne again, and that his guard has gone down more than a bit.
“Hey,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “no fair trying to get me drunk.”
Kazuya laughs. “I thought your tolerance would be better than that.”
It is, actually, which Kazuya knows. Mei just feels a bit loosened, not nearly at the point where Kazuya might need to pull his phone away to keep him from making any inadvisable purchases or posting selfies on social media. Kazuya is facing him on the couch now, his shoulder leaning into the backrest and one hand drifting idly toward Mei’s thigh, and Mei knows it’s not the alcohol that’s making his whole body feel hot.
He pushes the glass back toward Kazuya. “You drink it,” he says. “I’ve had enough.”
“Oh,” Kazuya says, and smiles. He takes Mei’s glass and sets it down on the table. “Does that mean you’re ready to go?”
“I guess,” Mei says. “You haven’t told me where you’re taking me next, though.”
“Well,” Kazuya says, “I’ll give you two options. We can go to a very nice kaiseki restaurant in Akasaka—two Michelin stars, nine courses, the full experience. After that we can go for a nightcap somewhere, maybe, or an extra dessert if you’re feeling greedy. Then I’ll offer to escort you home, and you can decide in the cab back if you want to invite me up to your place when we get there.” He leans a little closer. “Or…”
Mei waits as long as he can stand. “Or?” he finally demands.
“Or,” Kazuya says, and lays his hand fully on Mei’s thigh, his fingers curling into the space between his legs, “you can decide now.” A smirk spreads silkily across his face. “If your place isn’t too far, that is.”
Mei lets out a long exhale. It starts out involuntary, stirred by Kazuya’s words, but midway through it becomes a sigh of annoyance, then amusement. He’s smiling by the end, reveling in the intensity of Kazuya’s gaze. “It would really serve you right if I chose dinner,” he murmurs.
“It’s a thirty-minute cab ride.”
Mei’s heart gives a loud thud in his chest. Kazuya, he thinks, really is too devious for his own good. Then another thought occurs to him, and he narrows his eyes. “Those restaurants always book up way in advance. I bet you don’t even have a reservation.”
Kazuya holds his gaze for a long stretch. Then his expression wavers. “I… have a friend with a reservation,” he says. The corner of his mouth rises sheepishly. “Who I would owe a very large favor to if I had to steal his table.”
“Ha,” Mei says, smirking, and pokes the middle of his chest. “Now you owe me.”
“Is that how that works?”
“Uh-huh.” Mei stands up. “And I’m hungry, too. This had better be worth it.”
“I’ll do my best,” Kazuya says, and grins. He picks up the check, and they walk the two blocks back to their condo while Mei considers his next move.
Maybe Kazuya’s played his cards well up until now, he thinks, but that doesn’t mean he just has to give up. Kazuya puts a hand on the small of his back as they wait for the elevator, and Mei ignores the way his skin tingles at Kazuya’s touch.
He’ll take his time, he decides, at the very least. He’ll tell Kazuya he wants to take a bath when they get upstairs, and after he’s kept Kazuya waiting for a while, he’ll come out in his bathrobe and tell Kazuya he ought to take one, too. By then he really will be hungry, and he can insist they order something—or better yet, make Kazuya cook for him.
He misses Kazuya’s cooking, he realizes. He’s not sure Kazuya’s repertoire has expanded much beyond the dishes he used to make himself after school, but it reminds Mei of his mom’s cooking; it tastes like home. He’s been living on takeout and nutritionist rations for too long.
The elevator doors finally open, and Mei walks in and pushes the button for their floor.
“Huh,” Kazuya teases, standing closer behind him than Mei was expecting. “I pictured you living in a penthouse.”
“I wanted one,” Mei sulks. “My dumb boyfriend thought it was a waste of money.”
Kazuya laughs in his ear and loops an arm around his waist, his chest pressed close enough to vibrate through Mei’s back. “You shouldn’t have listened to him,” he says. “You deserve the best, don’t you?”
Mei scoffs and stabs the button again, just for good measure. Then he exhales, slowly, and lets himself lean back just a little against Kazuya’s chest. Kazuya chuckles and nuzzles his jaw, and Mei feels his resistance slip a little further.
Still, he’s planning to make Kazuya work for it. He really is. His hand shakes a little as he tries to get the key into the knob, Kazuya crowding him against the door and not helping at all, but he can’t just let Kazuya win, he won’t.
In the end, it’s a small thing that finally pushes him over the edge.
He gets the door open and they tumble inside, Kazuya’s feet tangling between his, and Mei grumbles and nudges him away so he can kick off his shoes. Kazuya doesn’t follow suit, though. Kazuya does the dumb thing he always does: braces his arm on the wall so he can lift his knee up to his chest and pull on his shoelaces, untying them in the air. He won’t stretch them out that way, he says, and it’s quicker than kneeling down. Mei thinks it looks ridiculous, but he suspects the habit is too ingrained to change.
Kazuya pulls the shoe off and sets it on the floor, then turns and presses his other arm to the wall, the way Mei’s seen him do—he can’t even imagine how many times. Every time they’ve come home together from an errand or a night out or a game their teams have played. Every time Kazuya’s come back from a series away, taking his time before he saunters over to Mei on the couch. Mei never gets up for him, of course, even though his impatience always burns furiously in his chest; even though Kazuya knows it, taking his time on purpose to make him wait. Mei hates waiting for what he wants. He always has.
Kazuya hops a little to keep his balance as he gets the laces undone, then finally gets the shoe off. He’s standing to place it with its pair when Mei steps in, pushes Kazuya back against the wall, and kisses him hard.
He’s giving in, he knows, he’s losing, but there’s still some victory in the surprised noise Kazuya makes against his mouth, a soft yelp turning into a moan. Mei flattens an arm against the wall and holds Kazuya in place, tilts his head, and Kazuya finally drops the shoe he’s holding. Then he wraps his hand around Mei’s shoulder, sighs, and kisses him back.
Mei hopes he wouldn’t give in this quickly if they really met this way, he thinks distantly. They haven’t even gotten out of the entryway and he’s pressed up against Kazuya, attacking him with his teeth, pushing his tongue greedily into Kazuya’s mouth. Kazuya is going to tease him for how easy he is, but the thought isn’t enough to make him stop. Kazuya makes a rough sound and pushes a hand into the back of his hair, and he’s not sure anything could make him stop.
“Mei,” Kazuya whispers against his mouth, as he draws in a hasty breath. “Mei—Mei—”
Mei stills, his lips still brushing Kazuya’s, close enough to share his breath. The sound of his name in Kazuya’s voice turns over in his mind. Are we on a first-name basis already? he thinks to say, but something stops him; the words won’t leave his throat.
“Mei,” Kazuya says again, into the moment of hesitation. One of Kazuya’s palms comes up to cradle his face, his thumb brushing over Mei's cheek. Mei blinks and pulls back a fraction, and as soon as Kazuya’s face comes into focus, he realizes what Kazuya means. He starts to smile as Kazuya laughs in a rush and whispers, “God, I missed you, Mei.”
Mei’s chest swells, and he feels his face split into a grin. “Kazuya,” he murmurs, leaning in again and pressing his hands to Kazuya’s chest, “take off that awful suit.”
Kazuya complies, fumbling to get his jacket off, while Mei unknots his tie and flings it to the ground. Then Mei turns to the buttons of Kazuya’s shirt, undoing the one at his throat before he loses patience and rips the rest open.
“Hey,” Kazuya protests, “this shirt’s alright, don’t ruin it.”
“It’s terrible,” Mei says, even though Kazuya’s probably right, “you—wearing it is terrible, get it off, come on—”
He only manages to pull one of Kazuya’s arms out of the shirt and untuck it from his pants before Kazuya grabs his face and kisses him again. Then he gives up on anything but staying upright, and Kazuya takes care of the rest as Mei drags him out of the entryway and into their bedroom down the hall.
*
“Fuck,” Mei sighs, some time later, staring up at the ceiling through a haze of satisfaction.
Kazuya laughs and presses his nose into Mei’s neck. He’s lying with an arm curled around Mei’s waist and a leg hooked over his thigh. Usually Kazuya is weirdly energetic after sex, one of his countless perversions, but today even he seems to need some recovery time. Either that or he just wants to stay close, which—well, Mei will count it as a win either way.
“Mmm,” Kazuya murmurs. “So you missed me too, huh?”
Mei gives a short laugh. “Like you didn’t know that.”
“I did,” Kazuya says, and kisses his jaw. “Although I thought you might actually be stubborn enough to make me wait another week.”
“Well, I couldn’t wait that long,” Mei says. His tongue feels a little loosened in the aftermath of two weeks’ worth of tension. “I was getting bored without you.”
Kazuya laughs, sounding pleased. “I try my best to keep you entertained.”
Mei turns his head then and kisses him again, on impulse, and Kazuya puts a hand in his hair and kisses him lazily in return.
“You know,” Mei says, after they’ve gotten tired of kissing and are lying quietly again, “you should try wearing your contacts more often.”
Kazuya grins. “What, my glasses are too nerdy and ugly for you?”
“No,” Mei says, scowling, “I just like looking at your face. Jeez.”
“Oh.” Kazuya gives a dumb laugh. “Well then, maybe I’ll give it a try.”
A curl of something like guilt rises in Mei’s chest. He ignores it for a few beats, but eventually it wins out, and he admits: “Your glasses aren’t ugly, either. I was—kidding about that.”
“I bet you weren’t kidding about my messed-up personality.”
“No,” Mei says, “that part was true.” He likes it, of course, but—Kazuya knows that. He hesitates again. Of course Kazuya knows that. “You’re not that much of a loser, though,” he allows, charitably. “You’re actually… you know.”
“What?” Kazuya says, his grin widening.
“—not a bad catch,” Mei says, reluctantly, already annoyed at himself for saying it. “Or whatever.”
Kazuya laughs and pushes himself onto his elbows to sit up. “I'm glad,” he says. “Since you’re kind of stuck with me.”
“Yeah,” Mei says, and blinks up at the ceiling as Kazuya pulls away. “I guess so.”
“I mean,” Kazuya says, and stops. His voice sounds a little stilted. “I did—mean that, you know. About settling down.”
“What,” Mei says, “that you travel too much to?” A sudden pang goes through his chest. He’s joking, he knows that’s not what Kazuya meant, but—it’s true that neither of them is home more than half the time. He misses Kazuya more often than he admits.
“Huh?” Kazuya says. “No, that I want to. I mean, that—I am. Pretty settled, I mean. With you.”
“Jeez, Kazuya,” Mei says, even as his heart starts to beat fast in his ears. “It’s been ten years. I wasn’t going to let you get away now.”
“Oh.” Kazuya is quiet for a moment, and Mei is, too, his heartbeat drowning out all of his thoughts. “Well, good,” Kazuya finally says. He swings his legs out of the bed and stands up, stretches his shoulders out over his chest, one at a time. “Anyhow, I think I owe you dinner.”
“You do,” Mei grumbles, grateful for the distraction. “I’m starving.” He really is, he realizes. Then he rolls over onto his stomach and gives a frustrated groan as he realizes something else. “There’s nothing to eat here, either. I haven't gone shopping.” He likes going with Kazuya to get groceries at the department store, the fancy one by their station, but he’s not going to go by himself.
“Yeah, there is,” Kazuya says. “I went yesterday.”
Mei takes a second to process that. Then he turns over. “You—what?”
“While you were on the road,” Kazuya says. “I came back here, you know. I wasn’t going to stay in a hotel when you weren’t even in town.”
“—Huh?!”
“I figured I’d end up cooking tonight, anyhow,” Kazuya continues, as he grabs a t-shirt from the dresser and pulls it on. He doesn’t even sound smug, just matter-of-fact; it’s somehow even more annoying. “I got some stuff to make yakisoba. That sound okay?”
Mei opens his mouth, furious, and then stops. Yakisoba actually sounds amazing, and it’ll be quick, too. He has to give Kazuya credit for planning ahead. “Yes,” he says, finally. “But you still owe me dinner out, too.”
“I know, I know.”
Mei huffs and goes to get a change of clothes of his own. He’s pulling a sweatshirt over his head when Kazuya comes close and tugs it down for him.
“You were right, you know,” Kazuya admits. “I think I'd be shitty at all that dating stuff. It’s a lot easier when I already know what you like.”
Mei makes an annoyed noise. “Obviously you’d suck at dating, Kazuya. I mean, you took me somewhere I showed you. How lame is that?”
Kazuya laughs, his hands still on Mei’s sides. “Well, you know the best places.”
“Honestly, you have me to thank for being dateable at all,” Mei sniffs. “You’d be an even huger dork if it weren’t for my influence.”
“Yeah,” Kazuya says, more easily than Mei expected. “Probably.” He smiles and leans in to kiss Mei’s cheek. When he pulls back, his eyes are warm. “Lucky thing I met you when I did, huh?”
“Mmhm.” He holds Kazuya’s gaze for a second, not wanting to look away. Then he tugs Kazuya down by the collar of his t-shirt and plants a kiss on his mouth. “Lucky thing,” he says, and smiles back.