#mahokoyuki

To:@simplylilyyy
From:@mahokoyuki
Rating:Teen
Tags: canon divergent, hanahaki au, Kuramochi’s POV
Hope you enjoy! I love hanahaki au but this is my first time writing it ^_^

Ryousuke had always been special.

When Kuramochi first arrived at Seidou he had a chip on his shoulder. He half assed practice, still sore from the betrayal of his “friends” in junior high. Ryousuke pushed his buttons, the right ones, and he was able to get his head back in the game. Then it turned out once he put the work in that he and Ryousuke worked damn well together. Kuramochi admired him, how much he pushed himself, how quick he was to adapt, to meet him in the middle on their plays. Outside the field Ryousuke was his senpai, but on the field he felt treated as an equal once he earned his partner’s respect.

Admiration. Respect. That’s all it was at first, he knows it. Kuramochi was a simple guy. He had real friends now, a team he could trust, and a partner who pushed him to be his best. He was happy, content-

So it made no sense that after their devastating loss to Inashiro Kuramochi was coughing up flowers on the floor of Seidou’s locker room.

He’d had a nagging feeling in his throat though most of the game, but Kuramochi blamed nerves. His partner was injured and still wanted to play. The game was important, especially to the third years and, well, Ryousuke was a third year so obviously important to him. The short stop coughed a few times after backing Ryousuke up, “saving him” his partner had said.

But as Kuramochi stared down at the damp pink petals littering the floor at his feet he realized it was more than admiration and respect. More than friendship that he wanted. He was in love with Kominato Ryousuke and he was doomed.

—

A week passed since the game and with it came a lot of changes. The third years moved dorms and the team’s dynamics shifted as players were moved to fill in the holes their senpai left. Gaps that Kuramochi was sure would never be filled the same. It was no surprise that Haruichi was moved into Ryousuke’s place and even less f a surprise he was good. Kuramochi saw his potential but they didn’t mesh as well as he and-

“Kuramochi-senpai?” Haruichi started to reach for him but Kuramochi raised his hand, head shaking, his other hand covering his mouth as he coughed but tried to hold back what he knew was trying to come up.

“I’m fine, Kominato.” Kominato. Ryousuke. Pink. Kuramochi swallowed thickly, felt gagged as the petals went down and he shuddered.

“He was coughing super bad this morning!” Sawamura chimed in and it made Kuramochi remember to dispose of the petals he hid under his pillow after his earlier fit. “Are you getting sick, Kuramochi-senpai?” Sawamura made his way over with a hand out, presumably to check his temperature but Kuramochi swatted it away and stepped back.

“I told you I’m fine! Get back to swinging. You should worry more about you’re batting right now, idiot!” Kuramochi growled out and decided to call it a day, shouldering his bat and fighting off the nausea. At least Sawamura made a good distraction. He’d need it if he was to see Haruichi. Ryousuke’s younger brother. Pink hair. Pink petals. He spent just as much time thinking of Ryousuke even though he wasn’t there. They haven’t spoken in weeks and Kuramochi has only caught glimpses of him around campus.

He was busy. All the third years were.

That’s what he told himself since he didn’t want to face the fact that outside of baseball…they weren’t really even friends.

Kuramochi steadied himself inside the locker room, hand on the wall while he took a few deep breaths, air not coming to him easily. His chest felt tight. There was a burning sensation around his sternum and the nausea increased.

It was getting worse, the Hanahaki disease. Something so rare and only strikes those who love someone who doesn’t feel the same in return. Of course with his luck he’d contract it. If he didn’t do something soon it could kill him. Surgery was out. Too long of a recovery and too many risks. Medicine would be doable, something to suppress his feelings until he fell out of love but he’d have to have his mom come with him to the appointment since he was only 17.

Kuramochi groaned, a few coughs escaping him and he doubled over in pain, something stuck in his throat. His stomach clenched as he choked, dry heaving. The bat fell from his grasp and his hand slid down the wall as he dropped to his knees, the impact not even registering as he focused on getting some air. Kuramochi reached into his mouth, trying his best to squeeze the petals out at the same time. His fingers felt something and he pulled, dislodging the obstruction and he gasped for breath, shaking all over.

It wasn’t just petals this time. Almost a whole rose with a small stem, red spots tainting it in places.

Damn, he was more screwed than he thought.

—

Msg from Ryou-san: Meet me after dinner tonight.

Kuramochi read the text over and over. He nearly tripped over his feet when he first saw it walking into the classroom. He sat there, the familiar queasiness hitting him again as he thought of a response. Weeks of nothing and now he wanted to see him?

Msg to Ryou-san: Gotta swing after dinner. Meet up before?

Msg from Ryou-san: Can’t. And you’ve been skipping out early anyway. You better not be slacking now that I’m not there to keep you in line. Class about to start, see you tonight.

How did he even know-? Oh. Haruichi. Of course. But did Haruichi just volunteer this information or was Ryousuke asking about him?

Why was this making him hopeful?

Kuramochi sighed and let his head fall, a nice thud once it made contact with the desk. And, as expected, he could feel his chest constrict. Ryousuke wanting to see him should make him happy, regardless of the reason. Maybe this meant they were more than just the Iron Wall, that Ryousuke considered him a friend.

Just a friend.

A cough came unbidden and Kuramochi brought his hands up, cupping his mouth. This one was easier than the one in the locker room, no stem attached but his throat still felt just as sore, if not more. He clenched his fist to hide the flower and looked around. Good, no one seemed to notice-

Miyuki. Miyuki was staring at him, that calculating gaze fixed on him as if solving a puzzle. Kuramochi frowned at him despite his face getting hot. If he didn’t know any better he’d think Miyuki looked a bit…concerned.

Shit.

—

Sure enough that damn catcher dragged him out of the room as soon as lunch started and didn’t let go until they reached the roof. Kuramochi didn’t even bother to fight. He definitely didn’t want to bring attention this this and maybe Miyuki didn’t even see the flower. Perhaps Sawamura told him that Kuramochi had been coughing for awhile and his teammate was trying his hand at caring.

Kuramochi should have known his luck wasn’t that good.

“Was that…did you…?” Miyuki rounded on him, eyes wide and boy did he look uncomfortable. This conversation would really go beyond whatever weird friendship/rivalry thing they had going. “A flower. You literally coughed up a flower. But it’s not possible. Hanahaki is so rare-“

“And yet, here I am hacking this shit up.” Kuramochi crossed his arms, lip curled in a sneer. “Look, Miyuki, I’m having a bit of crisis right now, I don’t need you making fun-“

“Making fun? Kuramochi, this is serious! This could…have you seen the nurse?” Kuramochi shook his head. He’s yet to even talk to his mom from the fear of what this disease could do to him and that she’d badger him to tell her who it was. And coming out to his mom on top of all this? Well, his mom was pretty chill with most things but this was bit much all at once. “Who is it?”

Damn nosy catcher. “None of your business.”

“Is it me?” Miyuki looked absolutely terrified.

Kuramochi snorted. “The hell? No!”

Miyuki visibly relaxed, the tension releasing from him palpable. “Good. That would’ve been awkward.” He scratched his neck and met Kuramochi’s gaze again. “Have you tried telling them? I’ve heard that assuming the feelings are unrequited can still trigger…you know.” He moved his hand in front of his mouth.

“No, I haven’t.” Kuramochi responded, trying to remain calm, taking deep breaths as he already could tell just talking about this would send him into a coughing fit. “There’s been nothing to suggest he’d-“ shit, Kuramochi already gave too much away. Fuck it. “He’d feel that way about me.”

“So you’ll just give up? And let this…?”

“I can’t ruin whatever sort of relationship I have with Ryou-san now! So, I’ll get some damn pills and wait it out. I’m not gonna die. Quit being so damn dramatic.” Kuramochi wanted to sound threatening, wanted to make it sound like Miyuki was making it a bigger deal than it was, but the shake in his voice revealed he was just as worried.

Kuramochi jumped when a hand landed on his shoulder, Miyuki trying (and failing) to give him a reassuring smile. “Just…don’t do anything stupid. Might be hard for you.” Great, now he was trying to lighten the mood. “And if you’re still…with the flowers next week I’ll go to Rei-chan and let her handle it.”

“You’re a terrible friend.” He didn’t mean it.

“I know.” Miyuki knew he didn’t either.

“But…thanks.” Maybe Miyuki Kazuya wasn’t all bad.

—

Despite his lunch conversation with the most socially awkward person ever, Kuramochi was able to feel better for a little while. He had a plan. He’d get over this disease. He even had a chance to talk about it and something about having it in the open made him feel lighter, made his chest open up some.

That all cane crashing down at dinner. The closer the time came to meet with Ryousuke the more nervous Kuramochi got. Three bowls of rice wouldn’t be happening so he took advantage of the sick card that Sawamura had been suggesting for a few days now and put his left overs on Miyuki’s tray.

Kuramochi coughed up three flowers just from the time it took to get from the dining hall to Ryousuke’s dorm on the other side of campus and when the object of his affection opened the doors smelling like he just came from the bath, hair still damp on the ends, and looking soft in a too big shirt and sweats, Kuramochi thought he’d dredge up a whole fucking rose bush.

This wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t he had a normal hopeless love that left him listening to sad music and possibly a few viewings of shit romance movies? No, he just had to contract a rare and possibly fatal disease.

Fuck you, universe.

“Hey, Ryou-san.” Kuramochi winced as he walked in. His voices sounded raspy and weak. His former partner merely raised a brow and gestured to a chair while he took a seat in the bed.

“You look awful. Can you truly not take care of yourself while I’m away?” The corners of Ryousuke’s mouth lifted, teasing.

Kuramochi tried to laugh it off, rubbing the back of his head while trying not to gag. This was a bad idea. “Just a cold, I guess. How’ve you been?”

Ryousuke tilted his head and sighed. “Busy. Adjusting took some time.”

“But no calls? No letters?”

Ryousuke gave an amused huff that madr Kuramochi’s heart rate pick up. “I thought it would be best to give you space, You-chan.” Space? For what? He couldn’t have known… “Let you get accustomed to working with Haruichi without either of you relying on me for help. You have to make your own bond.” Ryousuke continued to explain, somewhat…sadly?

“Ah. That makes sense.” Kuramochi took a deep breath and leaned over. Just a little longer. He had to keep them down at least a few more minutes. “He’s got potential. He he tries too hard to be you. And he’s not.”

“Good luck getting that through his stubborn head.” Ryousuke smirked.

“Haha-ah” No, no, no. Kuramochi covered his mouth and swallowed but it hurt. His throat was already raw and whatever was trying to come up was big.

“You-chan?” Ryousuke straightened up, eyes widening some.

“S-sorry. Might be sicker than I-I thought.” He coughed a few times into his hand, alarmed when he saw red. “I gotta go.” When he stood it just got worse, his whole body caught up in expelling the flowers.

Ryousuke was beside him in an instant, a hand on his back. “Youichi?” He sounded scared but Kuramochi couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything to convince him he was okay that he shouldn’t worry.

He didn’t want Ryousuke to feel guilty. It’s not his fault Kuramochi fell in love with him.

With tears in his eyes and sheer will Kuramochi coughed, petals flying out, pink and red, but it wasn’t enough. There was more still in there, lodged in his throat and chest and he was helpless. He couldn’t breathe.

He was further gone than he thought and now he…he…

—

Kuramochi felt a pressure against his lips. Something soft and warm. He didn’t want to open his eyes. This peace…this was the best he’s felt since the Inashiro loss. But suddenly his lips were cold and all he could feel was air.

Air. He could breathe.

“Youichi!” Ryousuke sounded winded, scared. That made him open his eyes.

He and Ryousuke were on the floor, petals around them and Kuramochi was held up, the other’s hands on his shoulders steadying him. It took a few moments for his brain to catch up. The hanahaki, the flowers, the tightness-it was gone.

And Ryousuke sat in front of him, cheeks as pink as his hair. Then his face was close again as their lips met again.

Again.

Ryousuke had kissed him and now he was-

Kuramochi pulled back in surprise. “Ryou-san? Ow!”

Ryousuke frowned as he put down the hand that chopped him. “You’re an idiot. Waiting this long.” He didn’t give Kuramochi a chance to answer as he kissed him again.

Kuramochi couldn’t help but wonder if he meant waiting to get treatment or to tell him his feelings. As he wrapped his arms around Ryousuke though he figured it didn’t matter.

It all worked out in the end and Kuramochi felt that he and the universe were even after he stayed the night in Ryousuke’s dorm.

to:@mahokoyuki

-4 years.

He hasn’t been to a pro-league game in forever. The last time he was sitting on bleachers, it wasn’t even about baseball; it had been for Summer Sonic back at home in Marine Stadium. It had been a sweaty, exhilarating series of sets, and Youichi had unlocked the door to his mom’s apartment at three in the morning after trying the wrong key three times, beer and exhaustion clouding his sight. Coming home to Chiba always means the familiar embrace of his hometown, with stores opening and closing on the same streets, people coming and going.

Maybe this year they’ll make it. But the odds are that this year’s P-League champs will be (again) the Hawks, and Youichi’s not exactly looking forward to that black-and-yellow shit in Jingu Stadium. Youichi tries not to think about that too much; he’s an optimist by habit and a punkass by nature. This could be it. This could be their year.

+1 year.

“Did you know?” Youichi’s waving his old phone in Ryousuke’s face, the screen a blur while Youichi nearly puts it in Ryousuke’s nose. “Have you seen this?”

“I haven’t seen that thing in years,” Ryousuke replies, leaning backwards away from the phone before taking it from Youichi’s hands. “What am I looking at?”

“A picture,” Youichi clarifies, and Ryousuke resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“What am I supposed to be looking at?” He studies it, but it’s not a familiar scene: it’s just a shot of a sports stadium, and Ryousuke’s been in almost every one in Japan. “It’s a baseball game.”

“Chiba Marine Stadium.” Youichi moves closer to him, forehead almost bumping up against Ryousuke’s as he taps the phone screen, and it clumsily zooms in. The photo quality isn’t great. Ryousuke doesn’t move away. “Look familiar?”

Ryousuke might have been in town for a Pacific League game. He’s not sure. “I don’t know,” Ryousuke admits.

“Oh.” Youichi visibly deflates. He puts his old phone in his pocket and shrugs, but the nonchalance is a little faked. Ryousuke can tell. “Well, okay then.”

-3 years.

Ryousuke watches the game, and also watches his brother. Jingu Stadium at this time of the year is a riot of sounds and sights; this year’s Big6 is, as always, hotly contested.

Who knows? Some time next year (or the year after that) he could be back, and his brother could be wearing a Swallows jersey. Haruichi is a conspicuous presence on the field, pink hair glinting sunlight on second base. Ryousuke takes a picture of him, a pink-headed blur as Haruichi catches and tags the runner on the shoulder. It’s almost as if he did it himself: the satisfying weight of the ball smacking against his palm, the stinging comfort of a brief, hard-earned success cupped in his hands. But Ryousuke’s body hasn’t had that feeling in years, and his breathing is remarkably even, as stable as Haruichi’s isn’t.

Ryousuke doesn’t retain that much information about Haruichi’s team. He follows college baseball casually, he says when his coworkers ask if he has any hobbies. He doesn’t mention his little brother, and nobody brings it up–not the shared family name or their similar faces. Haruichi’s shot up in height in the last few years, and Ryousuke tries not to be too vindictive about it, even if Haruichi does accidentally “get that down for you, aniki,” when he’s home.

When it’s time to come in and Haruichi’s batting helmet is on, Ryousuke doesn’t take his eyes off the number four on Haruichi’s back. It’s funny, how the material things could feel so real and unreal at the same time.

+2 years.

When he moves out of his old place, Ryousuke goes through his old portfolio and tries not to crease up the newsprint too badly. He can’t believe he used to write this way; he’s not sure what his old editors must had thought of his work at the time. Tanba would have (very gently) had his head for writing like that.

He much prefers how it is now, with his words published online first with the paper printing out a weekly article, his name still a black-ink byline. Back then, the scale of his assignments grew with his beat: high school games, college baseball, and Central League coverage with the summer sun beating down on the press seats’ in Meiji Jingu Stadium. Ryousuke’s heard that it’s kind of a holy place, since it’s owned by a shrine, but the luck that runs there is a different kind of religion. He’s seen Haruichi’s games play out there more than once there through providence or cruel fate.

His hand brushes over the photos, printed in four-color and some of them crisp profiles of players, others candids snapped of the packed bleachers. He’s not sentimental, but Ryousuke thinks there’s something Youichi-like about the faces in the pictures, keen-eyed and smiling.

-2 years.

Youichi notices That Guy when he gets a new phone. His old phone’s been through some great times with him, and he still wants to get those rock concert photos on a computer, but it’s time for an upgrade. He scrolls through pictures of good days and shitty, weird situations, including the time he got a new pair of kicks and immediately got them muddy. (Or rather, Eijun got them muddy and had, after half an hour of wrestling, whined and apologized.)

He’s not always there in every picture. Oftentimes he’s just someone in the background, a blurry face every dozen shots, with a gentle smirk on his face as if he knows the punchline to a joke Youichi missed. He’s on the skinny side, with cropped pink hair and thin eyes. Youichi’s not sure if he’s ever seen anyone like that before.

+3 years.

Eijun gets along with Haruichi famously. “You have a nice dog,” he laughs, and Ryousuke wants to bang his head against his own front door. Haruichi sits on the living room floor with Eijun’s head on his knees, Youichi’s dog staring up adoringly at Haruichi’s face.

“He’s dumb,” Youichi says, but Ryousuke can hear the fondness in his voice. “Dumb, but good.”

“Good dog,” Haruichi agrees, scratching Eijun’s ears. The dog’s leaving a prodigious amount of drool on Haruichi’s pants and on the couch cushions, but nobody seems to mind. Briefly–while he’s retrieving a towel to put under Eijun’s jaw–he regrets this, the whole idea of a weekend with him, his superstar little brother, and Youichi’s dog. Eijun tends to like everyone, and they’re used to this enough to keep old towels under the bathroom sink, but it’s still mildly annoying because, to put it kindly, Eijun is enthusiastic at best and at worst a public nuisance.

Ryousuke’s only three paces away from rejoining them in the living room, faded blue towel in his hands, when he hears soft voices. “I just wanted to tell you,” Haruichi says, and there’s something about the tone of his voice that makes Ryousuke stop. “Thank you.”

“For nothing,” Youichi dismisses, and the forced, casual tone makes Ryousuke twist the towel in his fingers. Youichi always sees more than he lets on.

“For taking care of him,” Haruichi insists. “It’s nice to see someone doing that, for once. The other way around.” His voice is so gentle, Ryousuke strains to hear it. “It can’t be easy.”

“Not easy,” Youichi agrees, as if he’s talking about the weather. Ryousuke would have been angry if he’d denied it. “But I’m not that kind of guy. I don’t want easy.” Eijun makes a small, snuffling noise, as if half-asleep. “Love doesn’t come cheap, you know?”

When Ryousuke comes back in, handing Youichi Eijun’s towel, he should have guessed that Haruichi had known he was standing there.

-1 year.

Ryousuke works right up to the deadline. It gets his editor into such a fuss, but Tanba’s always been like that. Ryousuke uses every second he can to get it all right: the writing, the facts, and it’s always funny when Tanba gets that twitching nerve at his temple, made all the more obvious by his baldness.

“Is it done?” Tanba is a pencil-shaped man, even when he crosses his arms. He looms over Ryousuke’s shoulder like a nervous ghost, a habit he hasn’t broken despite years of Ryousuke poking him in the chin–and on several memorable occasions, the eye–with a pen.

Ryousuke doesn’t stop typing. “Almost, mother hen.” Ryousuke saves the final (most final of final) draft and sends a copy to print. “Yes.” Tanba will see it on their shared network drive if he ever stops hovering, and Ryousuke puts his computer to sleep. He turns to see his editor still standing there, as if waiting for some other shoe to drop, but Ryousuke’s only done the whole ‘oh no, the computers crashed and we have nothing to publish’ joke once.

“Seriously.” Ryousuke puts up his hands in surrender, smile still playing on his face. The captions will be written by someone else, and he’s already asked for the raw photos of Haruichi in Jingu Stadium this year from their Central League photographer. “I’m done.”

+4 years.

Ryousuke puts the photos together on a late night. He’s drunk too much coffee this close to the wire, and Youichi sleeps like he’s dead. At two in the morning, he shouldn’t be up either, but it’s been a relief to hand it all in and know Tanba isn’t getting any sleep himself.

He really had been there in Chiba. Ryousuke had taken an early train and hoped to get there a few hours early to interview and get the feel of the place. He’d never watched a Pacific League game before, not live, and Ryousuke’s editor had cut a good quarter of his writing and given him a terrible headline before print.

Ryousuke appears in the background of Youichi’s photos with an odd, eerie regularity. They’d crossed paths over the years, meeting mostly in Tokyo, never knowing they might share a future. Ryousuke pulls up his work laptop and tries not to squint too hard at the bright screen, searching for his old articles and their accompanying pictures.

He stays up until dawn, finding the same face in photos that sleeps in his bed, and feels a little unsettled, if not fascinated, by fate.

0 years. Now.

“Sit! Eijun, no! Sit!”

Youichi nearly runs someone over with his dog one winter afternoon, Eijun’s leash slipping out of his gloved hands while his dog bolts down the street. He chases Eijun for a block, breath puffing white while he tries not to slip on any ice, and sees Eijun collide with someone holding hot coffee like a scene straight out of a social nightmare. “Bad dog!” Youichi fumbles with the sodden leash while glaring at Eijun’s unrepentant face. “Bad,” Youichi grumbles, and Eijun gives him the Sad Eyes before turning to nose at the stranger. “Jesus.”

The stranger, bundled up in a coat and hat with a scowl across his face, fixes a glare on Eijun, then Youichi. There’s a huge coffee stain growing on his chest. He looks like he’s about to bitch him out, which is kind of uncalled for since Eijun hasn’t done anything to him on purpose, precisely. Eijun strains at his leash. “Sorry,” Youichi blurts out, and Eijun makes the appropriate noises to follow. “He’s, I know, I’m sorry, he’s really young and dumb and I’m still training him.”

“Did you start today?” The stranger’s voice is like acid.

“Sorry,” Youichi repeats, and finds he means it a little less. “I’m really sorry. I’ll, I can try to make it up to you? Get you a new coffee?” He’s hoping his dog looks guilty.

The stranger (Jesus, is that pink hair?) stares at him and sighs. Youichi feels a little more defensive at the stranger’s total silence; it’s not every day he asks some random person out for drinks, even if it’s “Sorry My Dog Nearly Tried To Kill You” apology coffee. “Two coffees?” Youichi tries, and he swears there’s the ghost of a smile threatening the stranger’s face.

“Fine.” He doesn’t unzip the jacket, just ignores the stain and walks away, his strides pretty quick for a guy who’s that short. Youichi jogs a little to catch up, just to hear him say, “And keep up with your dog.”