WON'T TURN BACK, miyuki kazuya

chapter 3

Oliver's Steakhouse is one of the more nicer restaurants in Georgetown.

It's one of Eijun's guilty pleasure restaurants, though you doubt that he considers it a guilty pleasure. Eijun harbors very little shame for enjoying things; it's an admirable trait. You often wished you could just let yourself enjoy things sometimes with no strings attached.

In any case, Eijun had discovered this restaurant last season courtesy of Tony, who had taken him during one of the more celebratory dinners after a game. While he will always largely prefer the ways beef is prepared in Japan, he very much likes the way America does it, too.

You end up at Oliver's fifteen minutes before seven. The sun is still out and slowly starting its descent; a colder breeze has formed, biting at your cheeks, making you glad you're mostly covered. The beige long sleeve top you're wearing is speckled with Swiss dots, with a surplice neckline, blousy bodice, and sheer sleeves; it's tucked into a pair of medium wash jeans, finished with your beloved square toe mid-calf sock boots with a four and a half inch wrapped blade heel. Since your top isn't as insulated as your jeans and boots with its lightweight fabric, you're glad to have your black coat over you.

As you approach the entrance to the restaurant you find you are not the only one early.

You bump into Miyuki right at the doors.

See, you'll admit it. Again.

Baseball uniforms do something for you. They do. Eijun always looks ridiculously handsome in the Mariners uniform and you've seen pictures of him in the iconic Yankees uniform and you have to be honest: that one fits him better than the Mariners but they're still both good, you don't deny that.

And of course, you acknowledged Miyuki's attractiveness earlier. There very well might not be any other version of him as attractive as he is in that damn uniform. But also, you haven't exactly seen him in anything else. The odd pictures in Eijun's apartment of the two of them were mostly on the diamond, from their time together in high school. One, you faintly recall, of Miyuki's graduation? Something like that. They were both dressed in much more formal clothes. Uniforms for the school. And you won't comment on that since they were both teenagers but . . . the point is, you have few modes of comparison.

But what you realize now perhaps proves your initial thought wrong.

Mostly wrong.

Like basically every other baseball player, Miyuki is stupidly tall. And like a catcher, he has a slightly stockier build than, say, Eijun, who, as a pitcher, benefits from a more lean frame. Not as big as some catchers you've seen but the sheer breadth of his shoulders in the forest green knit crewneck is . . . impressive. Paired with a black jacket and dark wash jeans, he looks . . . good. The same broad shoulders bump against the door as he holds it open for a departing couple, giggling to themselves, lost in their own little world.

"Eijun isn't here?" he questions, amber-brown eyes trained intently on you; he's wearing a regular set of black rectangular frames now. It gives him an oddly bookish look that fits, somehow.

You open your mouth to tell him that Eijun will likely be late (this is a chronic issue of his) before your phone chimes with a text notification.

He steps away, letting the door slowly swing shut, and you pull out your phone.

A text from Eijun.

(18:53) I'm going to be late traffic is so bad downtown so go ahead and get a don't you dare cut me off oh you bastard

Voice-to-text, you assume, smiling faintly as you show it to Miyuki, who stands a respectable distance away from you.

"I guess we should head inside and get a table," you say.