That’s the only thought going through Takaya’s head right now, and it’s not exactly helping the rapid beating of his heart. It’s after dinner, the rest of the team inside playing cards or reading manga or doing whatever it is that high school boys do in their free time at training camp, but here he is, sitting under the stars with one nervous pitcher.
Mihashi has been quiet all day, which is usually a warning sign that he’s thinking something ridiculous again, but his pitching was fine, and he answered to Tajima’s yelling with as much stuttering enthusiasm as he always does. Takaya assumes this means he’s fine, but he doesn’t miss the way the pitcher would zone out in the middle of a conversation.
So here they are, sitting on the bench outside the cottage, with the intention of cooling down and, in Takaya’s case, figuring out just what the heck is bothering his ace. But somewhere in the middle of their slow process of communication, he was distracted by an eyelash, so, naturally, thoughtlessly, he leaned in, and now he’s hovering in front of Mihashi’s pink face with his hand on the other boy’s cheek.
Mihashi’s skin is soft. His nose is slightly sunburned, but other than that, his skin remains pale and easily flushed. His face glows healthily from the physical exertion the camp demands of him, and after the bath they took after practice it’s like touching a newborn baby’s skin; smooth, warm, and so incredibly soft. Takaya knows from experience that Mihashi’s hands are the opposite; they look soft, fragile, but in reality they are rough and calloused from years and years of stubbornness and hard work. So when Takaya’s fingers made contact with Mihashi’s cheek, he freezes from the unexpectedness of it all.
This close, Takaya can see the smattering of freckles that spreads across Mihashi’s pale skin. He finds himself comparing them to the map of stars above them, and instantly feels himself turn as red as the boy in front of him. Mihashi’s eyes glint gold in the moonlight.
“Eyelash,” he manages to say, pulling his hand back to show Mihashi the evidence on his fingertip.
“Oh,” Mihashi squeaks, blinking owlishly at his finger. He glances up and meets Takaya’s eyes, once, and then back at the eyelash. He leans forwards, and before Takaya can register the movement, he blows the eyelash away. Mihashi gives Takaya a shaky, sheepish smile. “A w-wish, right?”
It takes Takaya a few seconds to find his voice. When he does, it’s gruff, barely concealing the sudden embarrassment and strange… nervousness he’s feeling. His heart is pounding very fast; he wonders if he’s coming down with a fever.
“Right. I, ah. I hope your wish comes true.”
Mihashi’s smile is suddenly too blinding for the night. Takaya can’t find it within himself to look away. “Me, too, Abe-kun!”