Miyuki doesn’t like runners on base. Still: "Glaring at the runner isn't gonna change the fact that he got on base," Chris says.
Chris tries to make a point of not interrupting play to go to the mound, but he likes to think he knows how to pick his battles.
"I'm not glaring at the runner," Miyuki says simply.
"Well, you’re definitely glaring, but I know it's not me you're mad at," Chris says. "Relax. You're thinking too much."
Miyuki meets Chris' eyes, brows arched, as if challenging Chris to prove it.
He doesn't need to, though. It's impossible to miss, clear in the way his eyes are picking the batter apart (and Chris has to wonder if the batter even knows, if he realizes he's being analyzed from behind home plate and from behind the pitcher's line), in the way his fingers restlessly roll the ball in his hand, over and over.
"Would you rather I not think at all?" Miyuki asks.
"That's not what I said and you know it," Chris responds. He bumps his mitt against Miyuki's chest. "Focus on the batter and let me worry about the rest."
I won't let him steal off of you.
After a moment, Miyuki nods. "Okay."
Chris allows himself a smile and a nod before heading back to home plate.
The next batter is nothing special, Chris knows—a good chance for Miyuki to get his head on straight after allowing a runner.
He signals.
There's a moment where Miyuki doesn't visibly react—it's a pattern Chris is familiar with, a rhythm he's long since grown accustomed to. Chris knows, now, after more than a few late nights spent catching Miyuki's pitches, that there's always a beat where Miyuki considers, where he decides if the observations and details that he has—and the conclusion he reaches as a result—match up with the call Chris makes.
Usually, they're on the same page, and he'll get a nod and a familiar smile: a tilt of the lips that spells trouble for the batter and good fortune for Seido.
Like right now, for example—Miyuki draws back, the ball soars into Chris' mitt as if drawn by a magnet, low and away but just inside the box.
Strike one.
Other times, though—other times Miyuki will see something different, or want to take a different course of action, and he'll shake his head.
Even then, though, he usually knows what Miyuki has on his mind—they have the same scenarios running through their heads, he's sure.
But in terms of sight, Chris has a clearer picture of the field. He holds Miyuki's eyes steadily, considers the suggestion for just a moment (a sign of respect, seemingly small but utterly crucial), before repeating the call. He takes position, his posture leaving no room for further discussion.
After a few seconds, Miyuki nods.
Chris worries for the day another catcher—one that can't read Miyuki and understand everything going on in his head, one that Miyuki doesn't trust as much—sits behind home plate.
But they have plenty of time before they have to worry about that.
For now, they have this batter.
While the route of Miyuki's pitch is different this time (arcing away from the batter, just scraping the corner of the strike zone), it meets Chris' mitt with the same satisfying crack.
Truly, Chris shudders to think what would have happened had Miyuki gone to any other team, if Miyuki had gone anywhere with a catcher that was used to unyielding obedience instead of a catcher that allowed for a give and take.
Then again, there aren't many pitchers Chris would do this for. Tanba has always needed a nudge, a gentle lead, and it's something Chris has always been more than happy to give him. Really, most pitchers—especially at this age—weren’t quite honed practitioners but rather a mass of raw talent, in need of honing and focusing.
Miyuki, though—Chris has long since known that even if Miyuki has the shoulder of a pitcher, he has the brain of a catcher.
And just as it sometimes makes his life harder—when Miyuki doesn’t agree with a call because he’s thinking too much—other times it means he doesn’t have much to do. Miyuki’s self-awareness is a fine point, keen and sharp like the rest of him, and it means that when his pitch is even just a little off Chris doesn’t need to say a word. When he catches a bad pitch (and he always catches them), he meets Miyuki’s eyes and sees acknowledgement, understanding, expression tight behind his glasses.
Sometimes he worries that Miyuki beats himself up too much. He says as much, once, in a rare moment of verbal saliency.
Miyuki laughs, the tension in his face easing away almost immediately. "Don't worry about that, Chris-senpai, it's nothing more than what you would say. Sometimes I even hear it in your voice."
Chris can’t help but smile at that.
They’re practicing his breaking balls, getting rid of some of the energy leftover from the day’s practice match (a win, ending with a swinging strikeout).
Another moment passes, and it seems as good a moment as ever to ask: "What made you decide to play pitcher?"
Miyuki catches Chris' toss almost absent-mindedly, and his eyes go somewhere far away. "Dunno if I can say," he says. "I nearly played catcher."
"Really," he says, and it's not a question. He knew this the moment Miyuki took position on the mound and met his eyes, making the distance between the pitcher’s plate and home plate evaporate—as if sixty feet was merely a number.
"Mhmm," Miyuki says. He doesn't elaborate, merely takes position before pitching exactly what Chris has been asking for—low and away.
FILL: TEAM KURAMOCHI YOUICHI/MIYUKI KAZUYA, G
no tags.
Miyuki doesn’t like runners on base. Still: "Glaring at the runner isn't gonna change the fact that he got on base," Chris says.
Chris tries to make a point of not interrupting play to go to the mound, but he likes to think he knows how to pick his battles.
"I'm not glaring at the runner," Miyuki says simply.
"Well, you’re definitely glaring, but I know it's not me you're mad at," Chris says. "Relax. You're thinking too much."
Miyuki meets Chris' eyes, brows arched, as if challenging Chris to prove it.
He doesn't need to, though. It's impossible to miss, clear in the way his eyes are picking the batter apart (and Chris has to wonder if the batter even knows, if he realizes he's being analyzed from behind home plate and from behind the pitcher's line), in the way his fingers restlessly roll the ball in his hand, over and over.
"Would you rather I not think at all?" Miyuki asks.
"That's not what I said and you know it," Chris responds. He bumps his mitt against Miyuki's chest. "Focus on the batter and let me worry about the rest."
I won't let him steal off of you.
After a moment, Miyuki nods. "Okay."
Chris allows himself a smile and a nod before heading back to home plate.
The next batter is nothing special, Chris knows—a good chance for Miyuki to get his head on straight after allowing a runner.
He signals.
There's a moment where Miyuki doesn't visibly react—it's a pattern Chris is familiar with, a rhythm he's long since grown accustomed to. Chris knows, now, after more than a few late nights spent catching Miyuki's pitches, that there's always a beat where Miyuki considers, where he decides if the observations and details that he has—and the conclusion he reaches as a result—match up with the call Chris makes.
Usually, they're on the same page, and he'll get a nod and a familiar smile: a tilt of the lips that spells trouble for the batter and good fortune for Seido.
Like right now, for example—Miyuki draws back, the ball soars into Chris' mitt as if drawn by a magnet, low and away but just inside the box.
Strike one.
Other times, though—other times Miyuki will see something different, or want to take a different course of action, and he'll shake his head.
Even then, though, he usually knows what Miyuki has on his mind—they have the same scenarios running through their heads, he's sure.
But in terms of sight, Chris has a clearer picture of the field. He holds Miyuki's eyes steadily, considers the suggestion for just a moment (a sign of respect, seemingly small but utterly crucial), before repeating the call. He takes position, his posture leaving no room for further discussion.
After a few seconds, Miyuki nods.
Chris worries for the day another catcher—one that can't read Miyuki and understand everything going on in his head, one that Miyuki doesn't trust as much—sits behind home plate.
But they have plenty of time before they have to worry about that.
For now, they have this batter.
While the route of Miyuki's pitch is different this time (arcing away from the batter, just scraping the corner of the strike zone), it meets Chris' mitt with the same satisfying crack.
Truly, Chris shudders to think what would have happened had Miyuki gone to any other team, if Miyuki had gone anywhere with a catcher that was used to unyielding obedience instead of a catcher that allowed for a give and take.
Then again, there aren't many pitchers Chris would do this for. Tanba has always needed a nudge, a gentle lead, and it's something Chris has always been more than happy to give him. Really, most pitchers—especially at this age—weren’t quite honed practitioners but rather a mass of raw talent, in need of honing and focusing.
Miyuki, though—Chris has long since known that even if Miyuki has the shoulder of a pitcher, he has the brain of a catcher.
And just as it sometimes makes his life harder—when Miyuki doesn’t agree with a call because he’s thinking too much—other times it means he doesn’t have much to do. Miyuki’s self-awareness is a fine point, keen and sharp like the rest of him, and it means that when his pitch is even just a little off Chris doesn’t need to say a word. When he catches a bad pitch (and he always catches them), he meets Miyuki’s eyes and sees acknowledgement, understanding, expression tight behind his glasses.
Sometimes he worries that Miyuki beats himself up too much. He says as much, once, in a rare moment of verbal saliency.
Miyuki laughs, the tension in his face easing away almost immediately. "Don't worry about that, Chris-senpai, it's nothing more than what you would say. Sometimes I even hear it in your voice."
Chris can’t help but smile at that.
They’re practicing his breaking balls, getting rid of some of the energy leftover from the day’s practice match (a win, ending with a swinging strikeout).
Another moment passes, and it seems as good a moment as ever to ask: "What made you decide to play pitcher?"
Miyuki catches Chris' toss almost absent-mindedly, and his eyes go somewhere far away. "Dunno if I can say," he says. "I nearly played catcher."
"Really," he says, and it's not a question. He knew this the moment Miyuki took position on the mound and met his eyes, making the distance between the pitcher’s plate and home plate evaporate—as if sixty feet was merely a number.
"Mhmm," Miyuki says. He doesn't elaborate, merely takes position before pitching exactly what Chris has been asking for—low and away.
Control impeccable, as always.