#kenji sato fluff | mitskicain (2024)

© mitskicain all rights reserved. the modification, translation, and plagiarism of my work is strictly prohibited.

synopsis: the final fitness test that determines whether or not Kenji can go back to playing is tomorrow. the stakes are high, and there’s no denying the tension that’s in the air.

content warning: none :)

word count: 1.6k

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006: finding his bat

Coming back after a devastating injury is always tough. More so when the athletes themselves are under a ton of pressure to return as quickly as possible—this was extremely applicable in the case of Kenji Sato. Now, unfortunately, recovery from a concussion requires absolute rest: no training, no exercise or anything of the sort. So to say you were nervous for Kenji to take his physical fitness exam in two weeks when he had been mostly confined to bed rest was an understatement.

You saw the way his legs bounced restlessly when you sat down to watch the teams’ games with him. The slight tick of his jaw that you noticed whenever someone from The Giants made a mistake you know he never would. He was clawing to get back on the field, there was no doubt about that. The question, however, was: was he ready?

You’re about to find out.

After you and Kenji had your little sweet moment, the real work started. You would have to re-train him to be the athlete he was. To make sure everything was safe, you made him do the exercises under controlled environments, eyeing his every move and timing him closely. Every single time something seemed out of place, you would stop him, rush over, and make sure that it was nothing serious .

You can’t be too careful. Not when this man has his whole career ahead of him.

“I’m fine,” Kenji insists, trying to brush you off. It’s the day before the exam and the two of you have been going through batting practices all day. You keep your hand on his shoulder firm and look at him sternly.

“I have to make sure you’re okay.” You say, “an athlete’s job is to play and a medic needs to make sure their athletes are okay. Let me do my job.”

He sighs, knowing you were right and allows you to inspect his shoulder, rotating it to make sure that there was no injury at the cuff. You ‘tsk’ slightly when you find nothing, and this, in turn, makes him look at you, partially annoyed.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, “I don’t feel any pain, my shoulder’s fine.”

“That’s the thing,” you say, “your shoulder’s fine, so why aren’t you batting right?”

“I am batting right.”

“You’re not,” you retort. “There’s this weird split second delay. You’re hitting it too late, and the ball’s not on center.”

Kenji groans at your dissection of his play. You pull out your penlight and shine the light directly in his eyes, checking for pupillary reflex. Normal.

“Any complaints about vision lately?” You ask, moving the pen horizontally, his eyes follow.

“None. I’m fine.” He still insists, moving the penlight out of his face. His eyebrows are furrowed and his lips curled into a light frown. You pinch the bridge of your nose and sigh, frustrated, trying to figure out what was causing that weird delay. You remember the first day you had treated him he wasn’t seeing right, but you thought that it would have subsided as the swelling went down. You saw the way he batted when he was angry at you that night. He was fine. So why wasn’t he playing fine now?

“Hey,” he says, sensing your overthinking. He places his hand on your shoulder, rubbing soothing circles onto your skin. “What’s wrong?”

You let out a strangled laugh before sighing again, dragging your hands down your face in an exasperated motion. You look at him, squinting to see him better through all the projection lights. “I’m really worried about tomorrow.”

He smiles softly and traces his hands down to yours, pushing them open and slotting them in the spaces between. Your eyes follow the movements of his other hand, running up your arm, through your shoulder, your neck—finally resting underneath your chin, tilting your head up so you’re looking at him.

“I’ll be fine,” he whispers reassuringly, “you don’t have to worry about anything.”

You press your lips together before nodding, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. You feel the lines of his palms on your cheek, the way the ridges and bumps of his callouses felt—you sighed again, this time out of desperation for what you knew you couldn’t have. When you open your eyes, Kenji is staring at you with the same pained expression he did that night under the projector screen. You feel the same urge to kiss him again.

“You don’t have to come to the fitness test tomorrow.” He says, voice soft and breathless. You pull away and shake your head, stubborn.

“Kenji, I have to be there.”

“Then stay in the office while you wait,” he bargains, “I don’t want you worrying.”

You let out a frustrated huff. You knew he was right. Being in the stalls wouldn’t do him or you any good. Still, you wanted to show up and support him. Reluctantly, you nod. Kenji smiles and pats your head. You remember when you were the one doing these things to him.

When the next day rolls over, no matter how many breathing exercises you do, you’re practically bouncing off the walls in your boss's office. Seated in front of the trophy case—your legs drum at an immaculate speed, fingers digging into the side of your arms. You look straight ahead, out at all the trophies the Tokyo Dome stadium has accumulated over the years. Part of you longs to see Kenji’s picture one day put up there along with all the greats.

Everytime you hear the coach yell ‘clear!’, you jump a little. Your boss is also in the room with you, quiet, but you know he’s wondering what the hell happened. Maybe he’s regretting having assigned you as Kenji’s personal athletic trainer. At this moment, you’re kind of regretting it too.

Clean, cracked whips sound outside, and you know they’ve made it to the final part of the exam. Your heart thunders in your chest even more, your emotions borderline hysterical, as you listen closely for the sound of the baseball hitting the bat to signal his competency. All he needed was five in a row.

Thwack!

One. You counted mentally, feeling your palms grow clammy. Your legs bounce even more rapidly than before. Another hit. Two, you counted. Your breathing is quick and shallow, practically hyperventilating. Three. You wipe some of the sweat that’s beaded on your forehead. Four. You hold your breath.

Thwack!

Five. But it sounds wrong.

You shoot up from your seat, face pale and eyes wide in panic. Your boss gives you the same look, fearing that the accident had repeated itself. You scramble out the door, heaving against the railing, scanning the field for where Kenji was. Then you saw it.

Black helmet on the ground, intact. Sitting a few feet from it was the broken half of a baseball bat, wood chips splintered across the ground. Two figures stand next to it, still, hands at their sides. One of them is holding the other remnant of the bat.

“Lettuce!” They both cheer, voice shrilling throughout the entire stadium. Kenji turns to look at you, eyes wide with disbelief and mouth stretched into a grin.

“I did it! I passed the test!” He exclaims, voice echoing with triumph and disbelief.

Your hand flies to your mouth, gasp escaping you as you take in the scene. For a moment, you stand frozen on the steps, heart pounding in sync with the adrenaline rushing through your veins. Your whole worldview narrows down to just him—his smile, his voice, his sheer joy.

Without thinking, you bolt down the steps, each one a blur underneath your feet. He’s running towards you too, and in an instant—you’re both colliding, your arms outstretched, pulling him into a desperate embrace. The momentum sends you both tumbling onto the ground, laughter spilling out, bubbling with the sheer relief and excitement of the moment.

His arms wrap around your waist, savoring the privilege of holding you close after denying himself for so long. You bury your face into his neck, your laughter mingling with the warmth of his skin and the intoxicating smell of sweat and soap. When the two of you finally pull away, catching your breaths and sitting up, you beam at each other.

“I did it,” he repeats, his breath coming out in heavy spurts, grin splitting his face.

“You did it,” you echo, your hands finding his face. You trace the lines of his cheeks, cupping his jaw as you smile back, your own pride and joy mirrored in your eyes.

The air crackles between the two of you. You are so close you can feel his breath mingling with yours. His eyes drop to your lips, and you catch your breath—the same thought racing through your head. His hands move slowly, almost reverently, tracing the curve of your back, pulling you closer.

“Y/n..” He whispers, almost painfully.

Again that same look. Again the same urge.

Deep down you know this was wrong. Knew that if your boss saw this, he would kill you. You had been tip-toeing around this moment for ages, holding yourself back. Medical professionalism, you had reasoned. But now, at this moment, you thought: medical professionalism can go to hell. I want him.

So finally, after far too long, you push his face into yours and kiss him—your only regret being not having done this sooner.

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author’s note: AAAAAA FINALLY THE MOMENT YOU GUYS HAVE BEEN WAITING FORRR💥💥💥💥💥💥💥💥 f*ck MEDICAL ETHICS AM I RIGHT 🗣️🗣️‼️‼️🔥🔥🔥🔥 on a serious note: ahhhhh the slow burn was seriously getting to my head, even I was getting frustrated 😫😫 it’s so hard when the two characters just won’t KISS ALREADY (I literally wrote and planned the entire thing) anyways 😭😭 we’re nearing the end of the batter up series ‼️‼️ only the epilogue to go, which will be posted the same time tomorrow night 😉😉 stay tunedd 💥💥💥