Welcome

Deep within the facility, behind multiple layers of clearance, a wall of screens flickers in low light.

Each monitor shows a different angle of the same world: leaves shifting in wind, water moving over smooth stone, sunlight filtering through dense branches—and occasionally—movement.

“Zoom in on quadrant C4.”

The voice is calm. Precise.

A technician adjusts immediately, fingers moving across a console. One of the screens sharpens, focusing past overlapping branches until the image settles.

There.

A figure moves through the trees.

Barefoot.

Fast.

Silent.

He doesn’t walk so much as navigate—body adapting to the terrain like it was made for him. Muscles shift beneath sun-warmed skin, movements efficient, instinctive. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t second-guess.

He knows this place.

Better than anyone else ever could.

“Heart rate?”

“Elevated slightly—he’s been active for the last hour.”

“Behavioral pattern?”

“Routine variation. He circled the east water source twice. Send in a team.”

There’s a subtle shift in the room.

“Same protocol?” one of the researchers asks carefully.

The man at the center of the room doesn’t look away from the screen. Your father, lead researcher and architect of Project 0809. The one who built this place from theory into reality.

“Yes,” he says simply. “Introduce a new object and we’ll observe the subject’s reaction.”

“What object?”

A flicker of something almost thoughtful passes through his expression.

“Something reflective.”

The team enters at night as they always do.

Three men with sedated caution disguised as confidence. They follow a mapped route—one the subject already knows by heart, though they pretend otherwise.

One of them carries the object: a small mirror artificial in a way the forest cannot replicate. They place it carefully near the base of a tree before retreating to a monitored distance and wait. It doesn’t take long.

The forest changes before he appears.

The sensors pick it up: a shift in wildlife patterns, a sudden quiet in the canopy, the absence of smaller movement. And then—

him.

He emerges from behind a cluster of trees, shoulders tense, gaze sharp.

He knows they were here, he always knows. His eyes scan the area first—quick, calculating. He spots them almost instantly.

The men in white coats.

His posture changes as a warning. “Steady,” one of the researchers whispers under his breath. “He sees us.”

“Of course he does,” another replies quietly.

On the screens, his heart rate spikes but he steps forward anyway. Suddenly his attention shifts.

Not to the men.

To the object.

The mirror catches the last light of dusk, reflecting something fragmented and unfamiliar.

He stops a few feet away and tilts his head, watching it. Not childlike curiosity but assessment, recognition trying to form. Behind reinforced glass miles away, your father leans slightly forward.

“Watch his eyes,” he says.

The subject steps closer until he’s standing directly in front of it. He looks down and freezes. For a moment, there is no movement at all just him staring at something he has never seen before.

His reflection stares back.

Unfamiliar.

Too still.

Too direct.

His breathing shifts.

Slow.

Then sharp.

His hand lifts—hesitates—then reaches out.

Fingers hover just above the surface.

Then—

touch.

The reaction is immediate. He jerks back like it burned him. The mirror tilts slightly in the dirt. Behind him, one of the researchers shifts.

That’s all it takes.

His head snaps toward them and just like that, the moment is gone. He moves much faster than any of them are prepared for. One second he’s standing still—the next he’s across the clearing.

“Back—back!”

Too late.

He doesn’t strike immediately only driving them back, warning made physical.

“Retreat,” the lead researcher orders sharply.

They fall back, controlled but hurried, sticking to protocol. No direct engagement. He doesn’t follow far only close enough until they leave and until silence returns.

Minutes pass.

Then more.

Eventually, he comes back alone. The clearing is empty again except for the mirror. He approaches it more slowly this time now that there are no observers nearby. He crouches in front of it. This time—when he reaches out—he doesn’t pull away. His fingers press against the surface, firm and experimental. His reflection presses back.

His brows draw together.

Confusion.

Focus.

Something almost piecing together.

Behind the glass, someone exhales softly.

“He’s processing it.”

Your father doesn’t respond. He’s watching something else—not the confusion or curiosity—the awareness.

“Prepare the next phase,” he says quietly.

“Sir?”

For the first time, your father looks away from the screen. His expression is blank.

“It’s time,” he says, “we introduce a variable he cannot categorize.”

“…What kind of variable?”

His gaze turns briefly back to the screen—to the man crouched in the dirt, touching his own reflection like he’s trying to understand the shape of himself.

“A human one.”

“Human?”

“Something he won’t want to let go.”

—

The facility is quieter the deeper you go.

Not silent.

Never silent.

There is always something—low electrical hums behind the walls, the soft whir of systems regulating air and temperature, the distant echo of footsteps that never quite reach you.

But it is controlled quiet.

You’ve lived here long enough to know the difference.

You walk through the corridor with steady steps, sketchbook held loosely against your chest. The spine is worn, edges softened from use. It looks out of place against the sterile architecture—something lived-in in a place that isn’t.

The walls are smooth glass that interrupt the gray at measured intervals, revealing rooms you don’t look into.

You’ve learned not to.

Your eyes move once and catch a screen. A figure passing between trees too quickly to follow. You keep walking.

“Sweetheart.”

The voice stops you.

You turn around.

Your father stands at the far end of the hall, posture straight, hands clasped behind his back. He does not approach immediately. He rarely does. He prefers people to come to him.

You don’t rush either.

You close the distance at your own pace, stopping a few feet in front of him.

“Dad.”

Your tone is even. His eyes move over you briefly, taking in details the same way he does everything else.

“You’ve been isolating yourself.”

Not a question.

You adjust your grip on the sketchbook a tiny bit tighter.

“I’ve been working.”

“I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Of course he does.

You nod.

His office is as precise as he is.

Glass walls. Minimal furnishings. Clean lines. Everything placed with intention, nothing left to chance.

The only evidence that a life exists outside of this place is a single Polaroid photo pressed in glass: seven year old you on his shoulders at the aquarium, in awe of the school of fish gliding by.

You take a seat across from him, resting your sketchbook in your lap. He remains standing for a moment longer before sitting.

Even that feels deliberate.

“I’ve been reviewing your work.”

Your fingers freeze slightly against the cover.

“My sketches?”

“Yes.”

He taps the tablet on his desk, turning it toward you and your drawings fill the screen, catalogued and annotated.

He annotates everything.

“They’re precise,” he says. “You capture detail others miss. Subtle shifts in expression. Posture. Emotion.”

You study the screen for a moment then look away.

“Thank you.”

He leans back and without ceremony he says: “I want you to participate in the next phase of the project.”

The words drop into the room like something already decided. You don’t react immediately. “…What would that involve?”

“You will be entering the environment.”

“The jungle?”

“Essentially.”

The answer is immediate. You blink once, processing not the danger but his intent. “You’ve never asked me to do that before.”

“No.”

He doesn’t elaborate.

“So…why now?”

His gaze sharpens—not in emotion, but in focus.

“Because you are not like the others we’ve sent.”

Your brows draw together.

“They observe,” he continues. “They provoke. They record reactions. You do something else.”

Silence stretches between the two of you.

“You see,” he says.

You exhale slowly.

“And what exactly am I supposed to be seeing?”

“Development,” he replies. “Adaptation. Behavioral progression under sustained isolation.”

“That’s not all.”

It slips out before you can stop it.

Your father doesn’t deflect. “No.”

Your grip tightens slightly on the sketchbook.

“There is attachment potential we have not yet explored.”

Your stomach turns enough to register.

“…Attachment to what?”

“To you.”

“You want me to go live with him.”

“Yes.”

“For how long?”

“One week.”

“And when I leave?”

“We observe the outcome.”

You look down at your sketchbook. Your thumb presses lightly into the worn edge of the cover.

“Will he know why I’m there?”

“No.”

“Will he understand who I am?”

“We don’t know.”

That is the first time in a long time he’s allowed himself to be unsure.

“Okay” you say simply.

Your father studies you carefully as he does with everything.

“You’re agreeing.”

You look up and meet his eyes directly.

“When do I go?”

A subtle shift crosses his expression—approval, maybe or simply expectation fulfilled.

“Tomorrow.”

Your room feels smaller that night. You sit at the edge of your bed, sketchbook open in your lap. A blank page waits in front of you, pencil resting against it, unmoving.

For a moment, you consider drawing something familiar. The corridor. The glass. Anything predictable.

Instead—your hand moves.

The lines come slowly at first. Carefully.

A shoulder. The angle of a jaw. Posture that doesn’t belong to structured spaces. Something instinctive. You’ve only seen him in fragments, reflections in glass and blurs across screens you’ve tried not to study too closely.

And yet, your hand fills in the gaps line by line until a figure takes shape. Not perfect or complete—but undeniably him.

You pause, staring at the drawing.

“…Hi,” you say softly.

—

Morning comes without warmth.

The sky above the facility is pale, washed in early light that hasn’t quite decided what it wants to be.You stand at the edge of the access point, a few feet back from where the reinforced structure gives way to forest.

From here, it looks like nothing.

Just trees.

Just green.

But you know better.

Behind you, a small team moves with quiet efficiency. Not the same kind of presence as the researchers who enter the forest. These ones don’t provoke only prepare.

“Final check,” one of them says.

You don’t turn around. Instead, you adjust the strap of the small bag slung across your shoulder. Inside: medical supplies, a water container, basic tools and your sketchbook.

“Vitals stable,” another voice confirms.

“Audio link?”

“Active.”

There’s a pause.

“Remember,” the first voice says, stepping slightly closer—but not too close. “We won’t intervene unless absolutely necessary.”

Absolutely necessary.

“What qualifies as necessary?” you ask quietly.

“…You’ll be monitored at all times,” the voice answers instead.

That isn’t what you asked.

The moment you cross the threshold, the air changes subtle—but undeniable. The temperature shifts first. The kind of heat that settles against skin instead of passing through it.

Then the sound.

The facility disappears behind you in an instant. Only leaves, wind and something small moving somewhere unseen.

You pause.

The ground beneath your feet isn’t uniform, dipping and rising unpredictably, softened by layers of soil and fallen leaves. The light filters through the canopy unevenly, breaking into shifting patterns that never stay still for long. It doesn’t feel like a place built for observation.

It feels like a place that resists it.

You take another step.

Then another.

Behind you, the entrance seals without sound. You don’t turn back as they watch you from a dozen different angles.

“Subject has entered the environment.”

“Maintain visual.”

“Tracking her position.”

On the screens, you move through the forest slowly—deliberately—looking. Not like the others did. Not scanning for threat or asserting presence.

Absorbing.

Your father says nothing but he notices.

You move deeper.

Branches shift as you pass, brushing lightly against your arms. The air smells different here—earthy, damp, alive in a way the filtered air of the facility never is.

You keep your movements measured.

Not because you’re afraid of being attacked but because you don’t want to interrupt something you don’t understand yet. A faint sound to your left—you stop. The sound fades and you continue.

He knows.

He knew before you crossed the threshold that something changed. It started as a disturbance subtle, almost ignorable. A shift in the rhythm of the forest but also something else.

Different.

Not the same as the others. He moves through the trees without sound. His body already knows what to do: stay downwind, stay above sightline, move where the ground won’t betray him.

He doesn’t rush blindly, he tracks but then he sees you and stops. Not because he has to but something in him does.

You stand in a clearing of filtered light, partially turned away, your head tilted slightly like you’re listening to something he can’t hear.

You don’t look like the others.

That’s the first thing.

The shape of you.

Softer, rounder lines, different proportions, darker shade. Not built for intrusion or force. You look… warm.

His gaze sharpens.

You aren’t looking for him.

That’s the second thing.

The others always look but you just… exist.

He shifts slightly in his position. A branch moves, barely. Your head turns and for the first time—your eyes meet.

You don’t react.

Not the way he expects you to.

No sudden movement or sharp inhale. You look. And for a brief, suspended moment—neither of you move.

He doesn’t understand.

Why isn’t she backing away? Why isn’t she afraid? Why isn’t she calling the others?

His body is tense—ready.

But you don’t do anything that requires a response.

You don’t approach but you don’t retreat either. You stand there—watching him the way he’s been watching you.

Something unfamiliar shifts in his chest, not threat but something else he can’t explain. He steps out of the shadows slowly, fully visible now.

His eyes never leave you, watching for the reaction. Waiting for it. It doesn’t come. Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your bag.

He’s closer now and way taller than you expected. There’s something unrefined in the way he holds himself—like every movement is guided by instinct instead of learned behavior. But his eyes—his eyes are understanding more than anyone has given him credit for. You don’t speak right away because something tells you that words might not be the first thing he needs. He watches your mouth.

Nothing.

No sound.

Why?

The others always make noise.

Too much noise.

His head tilts in confusion as he takes another step closer. You still don’t move.

“Hi,” you say softly.

The word lands between you.

He freezes.

Sound… but not like the others.

It was gentle.

Strange.

Something in the tone makes his brows draw together. He tries to place it.

The word.

He knows it. He’s heard it before but never like that—directed at him like that. His lips part slightly. The shape of the word forms slowly.

“…Hi.”

It comes out rough as if something pulled from a place it’s never been used before.Your expression shifts not in surprise but to something softer.

You smile warmly.

He doesn’t understand that either.

But he doesn’t look away for a second.

For a while, neither of you move.

The forest settles around you again, slowly reclaiming the space that had stilled at your meeting. Leaves shift overhead, something far away rustles and passes unseen but the tension between you doesn’t snap, it loosens.

He watches you.

Not like before, not like he watches everything else.

You don’t behave like the others. That thought circles again, stronger now. The others move too quickly, speak too loudly, and look at him like they’re waiting for something.

You haven’t done any of that.

You stay where you are, weight balanced, shoulders relaxed—not careless, but not braced for a fight either. You look at him like…

You’re trying to understand.

Not control.

His head tilts even more.

Why?

You notice the shift before he does. It’s small but the tension in his shoulders eases just a fraction. His stance widens—not defensive, but more confident.You let out a quiet breath.

“My name is Y/N. It’s nice to meet you.”

Not a word this time.

Two whole sentences.

Your voice doesn’t change—still soft, still even but it’s much more than the last time you spoke. He freezes again.

More sound.

More meaning.

He understands—not every word—enough.

Y/N.

A name.

He watches your mouth as you say it, committing the shape to memory. You don’t repeat it immediately. You just…

Wait.

He shifts his weight. He wants to respond but the words don’t come out the way they do in his head. His lips part, close, then open again.

Nothing.

Frustration flickers.

You see it, not as failure, as effort and that changes everything.

“You don’t have to rush,” you say gently like you mean it and there’s no expectation tied to it. He pauses.

Rush.

The others always rush and expect and push.

You don’t.

The tightness inside of him loosens and he breathes out slowly. And for the first time, he doesn’t feel like he’s being watched.

—

Miles away, the observation room is frozen.

“Is she… adjusting her speech pattern?” one researcher asks.

“She’s simplifying without condescension,” another replies, eyes fixed on the screen. “She’s… pacing him.”

—

He steps closer, testing, and you stay where you are. He circles you once, not threatening just… observing from different angles. You don’t turn to follow him or track him as if he were prey. You let him move.

Trust.

The concept is unfamiliar but something about it settles into him anyway.

“…Y/N.”

It comes out carefully, uneven, but it’s there. Your face softens immediately.

“Yes,” you say, a small smile forming. “That’s my name.” You don’t use exaggerated praise—only confirmation.

Good.

That felt… good.

He doesn’t know why.

Without warning, he turns and moves away. You don’t call after him—you wait. He glances back once, checking to see if you’re still there. He moves again, slower this time.

An invitation.

You understand, adjusting your bag and following a medium distance behind. Not too close, not too far.

The forest changes as you move.

The ground rises and falls steeper, the trees grow denser, the light filters differently—dimmer, more enclosed. He navigates without hesitation. You watch how he moves, how naturally he belongs here. You reach it gradually, an elevated structure woven into the trees. Not artificial—but not entirely natural either.

A home.

He climbs first with practiced ease, then pauses at the top, looking down at you—waiting. You step forward, testing your footing. He shifts closer, not touching, but ready.

Just in case.

When you make it up, he watches you.

Inside, it’s… his.

That’s the only word for it.

Objects are scattered throughout: smoothed stones, woven pieces of fiber, things the scientists left behind that he repurposed into something else. Organized—not randomly—intentionally. You look around, taking everything in slowly.

“…You made this,” you say quietly. Again, confirmation. He straightens.

Yes.

That one, he understands fully.

“This is beautiful.”

He stops.

Beautiful.

He knows that word but… not like this. Not directed here, not at something that is his. Something warm moves through him that he doesn’t know the word for. He watches you as you kneel, examining something he has made, not touching immediately. You look first.

“You’re really good at this,” you add softly. He shifts, unsure of what to do with the information.

—

“Do you see that?” someone whispers. “He’s—”

“His posture,” another cuts in. “He’s responding. Communicating.”

Your father leans forward.

“Huh,” he says, almost proud you made the discovery.

—

You glance back up at him.

“May I sit here?”

Another full sentence. Not assumed—asked. He nods quickly. And just like that, the space changes. You open up your sketchbook and his attention snaps to it instantly, familiar.

Paper.

Marking.

He steps closer. You look up briefly.

“I draw,” you explain simply. Then—without hesitation—you begin. He watches your hand, the movement, the way the lines form something from nothing. Slowly he realizes… it’s the person he saw in the mirror.

It’s him.

Not broken or fragmented.

Whole.

After a while, you tilt your head up at him again.

“I never asked… What's your name?”

The question lands differently.

Name.

He has one, he knows he does. He’s heard it from them—from the voices in the distance. But it’s not used. His brows pull together, searching for it, but it feels just out of reach. You don’t move; you just wait like you have all the time in the world. So he tries again, pushing past the frustration and finding the sound.

“…Min…”

It slips and he clenches his jaw.

Again.

“…Ming…”

Closer this time.

Your eyes stay on him, encouraging but not forcing. He exhales sharply and tries one more time.

“…Mingi.”

Silence.

Then you smile warmly.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mingi.”

And in the observation room, no one speaks. Because for the first time, Subject 0809 has said his own name without force.

It was… given.

—

The forest feels different with two people in it.

More aware.

You notice it first.

It’s in the way the air seems to settle differently when you move now—not resisting you, not closing in as tightly as before. It’s in the way small sounds return more quickly when you pass.

It’s in him.

Mingi doesn’t leave, not once.

At first, he keeps his distance—never too far—just far enough that he can move without brushing against you. Enough that he can watch without being in the way.

He tracks everything you do.

The way you sit. The way you shift yourself when you’ve been still for too long. The way your hands move as you draw—steady, precise, like each line matters before it even exists.

You don’t acknowledge it and somehow that makes it… easier.

You pretend not to notice at first because you understand what it is: observation. The same thing that’s been done to him his entire life. The difference is, you don’t want to take it away from him.

So you let him have it.

By the second day, he’s closer.

Not something he consciously decides. It just… happens.

You sit near the base of the treehouse that morning, sketchbook balanced against your knees, the filtered light catching in the pages as you work.

He starts where he always does: across from you, half shadowed. But at some point, he shifts a bit. Then closer until he’s beside you, close enough that he can see.

You don’t look up but your pencil slows.

He leans forward carefully, as if the space between you is fragile. His gaze drops to the page. Lines. Shapes. Meaning.

He recognizes it faster this time.

It’s him again but different—softer. The sharp edges of his posture aren’t as rigid. The tension in his shoulders is… less. He tilts his head, confused. That’s not—

“You sit like that when you’re thinking,” you say quietly.

He knows that word.

Thinking.

You said it like it belonged to him, unfamiliar but not unpleasant. He watches your hand move again, in awe of how he takes shape through your eyes.

“… Good,” he says. The word is quiet and a bit rough but still intentional.

Your lips curve slightly. “It is,” you agree.

Mingi gets that warm feeling again, stronger this time. He shifts closer absentmindedly, shoulders almost touching. He notices your hands again. He’s noticed them before, but not like this. Not this close.

The way your fingers hold the pencil. The way your wrist moves. The way your skin looks… different. The others had lighter, rougher skin.

You’re a bit darker. More brown.

Softer.

Pretty.

He hesitates then slowly, he reaches out.

You feel it before you see it. The shift in the air. You pause but don’t pull away. You just… wait. His fingers hover just above your hand, not touching yet. He looks at you, a silent question.

You nod.

His fingers make contact, light and careful, like he’s expecting you to disappear.

He freezes immediately, watching your reaction, awaiting rejection. Resistance.

Anything.

Instead, your fingers shift under his—not to escape—to meet him. His breath catches.nThe contact lasts longer than he expects, longer than he understands.

Miles away, in the observation room, the researchers are silent. The only sound is the light whirring of the cooling fans and the soft rustle of leaves coming through the speakers.

“Physical contact,” someone breathes. “Unprompted. And she didn’t withdraw.”

“Which would reinforce the behavior—”

“Continue observation” your father cuts in. “My daughter knows exactly what she’s doing. She always does.”

Back in the forest, you gently pull your hand back after a moment. Mingi watches the space where your hand was as you flip the page and start a new drawing.

“…Do you want to see?”you ask quietly.

He looks at you, then the sketchbook, then back at you.

Yes.

He nods.

You turn it more towards him. It’s the treehouse—the branches, the way everything curves together, the way it holds. He stares at it, recognizing the resemblance.

“…Home,” he says, the word coming out so clearly that it surprises him. Your expression softens.

“Yes,” you say with a tiny nod. “It is.”

When you finally lean back against the tree to rest, he mirrors it without thinking. Your shoulders touch but this time, neither of you pull away.

The forest breathes around you, alive and unbothered—unknowing of the fact that something gentle took root.

————

Hey guys! Let me know if you want me to continue this (I know this trope is an acquired taste but I just wanted to try writing it out!)

“It’s an honor to work for an esteemed family like them,” your mother would say. “And our family has done so for a long time.”

Needless to say, your curiosity is spiked about Ushijima Wakatoshi before you’ve even met him, what with all the stories you’ve heard. He’s the cherished heir, someone who does well in school and is perfectly obedient to his mother and grandmother, the picture of filial piety. And, to top it off, he’s a one-of-a-kind volleyball genius, winning junior tournaments and taking private lessons with top coaches.

Because he does so well, Kaasan loves bringing him up as an example against your wild ways, the mud you always track into the entryway and the dirty shoes you leave in the cupboard, your fluctuating grades which are as turbulent as the swell and dip of ocean waves (you do well in school when you’re not falling asleep during tests), and the fact you’re never in bed when you’re supposed to be and you always drop bits of rice from your chopsticks during dinner.

“Ushijima-kun always eats with such good manners. He always goes to bed on time, and never complains. He always remembers to wipe his shoes before coming in,” your mother would say. “You should try to be more like him.”

Ushijima Wakatoshi, as far as you’re concerned, is a mythical creature of some sort, a perfect child that can’t possibly exist in the real world. He’s setting unfair standards for the rest of the kids with his actions, and you’re positively tired of being compared to him.

Which is why, on the first day you’re old enough to accompany your parents and they no longer decide to shuffle you off to Obaachan’s house when they’re too busy to look after you, you decide to look for this mythical creature. He can’t really be that great, can he? You’re going to prove firsthand that he’s not; there has to be something that he messes up on. Maybe he forgets to wipe his mouth after eating, or he forgets to brush his teeth in the morning. Something like that, that you can hold up to your parents to prove that even Ushijima Wakatoshi messes up.

You’re meant to stay quietly away from the main household and to stay where your parents are working, after Kaasan repeatedly warns you multiple times to be on your best behavior, to be quiet and bow respectfully to anyone you see, and to use -san and not -kun or -chan or whatever silly nickname you want to bestow on a stranger.

Still, as soon as they’re off managing whatever tasks they’ve been assigned to, you immediately slide open a door and start wandering. The Ushijimas have a traditional house, all wood beams and shoji doors and tatami mats, with a fenced-off courtyard in the middle with a pond, a cluster of budding flowers, and a rock garden your father has to rake every day.

Even the decorations are tasteful, simple vases set on glass tables or ink brush paintings on the walls. It all screams wealth, but each room feels strangely lonely. Less lived in, and more for decoration and showing off to guests. It’s a far cry from your own cluttered home, the strings of drying laundry on the porch and the piles of books in the living room, the smell of Kaasan’s cooking wafting from the kitchen.

You’ve visited each branch of the house at least once, careful to bow to anyone you see, chirping out the appropriate greetings (you know how to be polite! If only Kaasan would trust you!) and haven’t seen Ushijima Wakatoshi at all. Maybe he’s away practicing tea ceremony manners, or reading some book that’s way above his grade level just to show off, or whatever it is that rich kids like him like to do in their free time.

With a huff, you head back down to the courtyard, ready to while away the time looking for worms and bugs, or playing pretend that the entire courtyard is the ocean and you’re a fish trying to survive in the brutal waters—when you spot a tuft of dark green hair crouched among the flowers. 

They’re sunflowers, you realize on closer inspection, heavy green heads still tightly curled like a closed fist, as if they were too shy to bloom. The stems are long and reedy, and the boy isn’t even doing anything, just crouching in front of them, as if he’s trying to blend in among them forever and become a flower himself. 

“Hi!” you chirp, wandering up the boy. He blinks up owlishly at you. He has a strangely solemn expression, one that makes him look disconcertingly mature, even with his chubby cheeks and thick eyebrows. He must be the kid of another worker here, just like you.

“Hello,” he says.

“What’re you doing here?” you say. “Do you like flowers?”

“They’re nice,” he says. 

“So are you here because you like them?” You crouch right next to him. At this angle, the sunflowers are taller than you, and you squint up, a sky of green leaves and waving heads, arching right over you. “Or are you looking for bugs?”

“Bugs?” the boy says.

“Yeah! Or worms! They’re really cool, aren’t they?” What, has this boy never known the joys of worm-hunting? You dig in the dirt, moving clods of moist soil as carefully as you can so you don’t disturb the flowers until you find a wriggling pink creature, attempting to burrow further down. You pluck it up in your dirty palms and thrust it in the boy’s face.

“This is a worm,” the boy says. He’s looking at it cross-eyed, frowning. “Why did you dig it up?”

“Because it’s fun? And they feel so slimy! Here. Take it!” You take the boy’s hand and smooth it out, placing the worm on his outstretched palm.

“But the worm belongs in the dirt. It doesn’t want to be here,” the boy says. However, he’s still watching it stretch across his palm, without making any move to fling it back.

“Well, that’s why we put them back when we’re done! When it rains, I always try to throw them back into the grass. It gets so sad when they dry up, right?”

“I suppose so,” he says, carefully placing the worm back into the dirt and watching it wriggle deeper down to return to its wormy little home. He pats the clods of dirt back into place, carefully smoothing them out with his fingers. 

“The flowers are pretty,” you say after a while. 

“Otousan helped plant them,” he says. “But if you want to dig for worms, then you shouldn’t do it here.”

His dad must be the other gardener, then. You wrap your arms around your knees, sneaking another glance at the boy and his serious face. “Eh… does that mean you don’t want to look for worms? We can look for other bugs.”

“I did not say that. I simply said we should not look for bugs here, where we might disturb the flowers,” he says. “You’re an odd person. Okaasan has told me it’s not good to play in the dirt.”

“Well, you’re also weird,” you counter. “You talk super stiff and formal! Like you’re a grown-up. You’ve really never played in the dirt before?”

“Is that a bad thing?” he says.

“Nah, it just means we’re both weird. If you’ve never really played in the dirt, come on! I’ll show you how to! The dirt is really fun. Everyone should play in it at least once.” You stand, stretching, and hold out your hand to the boy. After a second of staring, he carefully takes your muddy hand into his, letting you pull him up.

For the next most pleasant half hour of your life, you traipse around the garden with the boy. The two of you look for ladybugs and grasshoppers, and you carefully cup them in your hands to show him before they fly up into the air or jump out of your hand. You find the most pretty rocks you can in the rock garden, plucking up smooth white stones as round as eggs. You peer down into the koi pond, watching the glubbing faces of the fishes staring back as you stick your tongue out at them.

“Are you having fun?” he asks you.

“I’m having a lot of fun! Why wouldn’t I be? We’re friends,” you say.

“We’re friends,” he murmurs. There’s a small, awkward smile blooming across his face, as hesitant and gentle as one of the budding sunflowers in the garden.

Your new friend is a little odd and clumsy, but he follows along obediently, even when you ask him to pretend to be fishes with you and he asks what kind he should be, and if he was meant to be a saltwater or freshwater species. There’s something fun even about his adult-like mannerisms, the way he asks questions and approaches the world. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never played in the dirt, though,” you say, during a momentary break, when the two of you are spread out on the grass. Well, you’re lying on the grass, and your friend is sitting in a perfect cross-legged position. “That’s kinda weird for a gardener’s son.”

The boy blinks at you, slow and owlish once again. “My father is not a gardener here.”

“Eh?”

And then, from the open door leading out of the courtyard, Kaasan calls your name with a scandalized shout. “What are you doing? And why is—Ushijima-kun?” she says, and your stomach drops. You turn to the boy in slow motion, as if you’re trapped in a horror movie and the monster is looming just behind you, an inescapable presence. 

“I am Ushijima Wakatoshi,” the boy says, giving you a perfectly neat and polite bow. “And my father used to live here. It is just my mother and grandmother and I now. This is our estate.”

—

After a furious bit of scolding from Kaasan for dragging Ushijima out to play in the dirt and getting both of your clothes dirty, you’re certain you’re never going to be invited back to their estate again. Kaasan apologizes to his mother and grandmother for so long it gives you a headache, and makes you bow and apologize, too, even though his mother laughs it off and says it’s fine. His grandmother, though, didn’t say a word the entire time, and you shrink under her stare.

Still, it’s the greatest shock you’ve ever experienced. The young heir you’ve heard so much about is the friend you enjoyed such a pleasant afternoon with. You even caught the best and fattest bugs to share with him, and you wouldn’t have done that if you knew who he really was! Well. Maybe you still would have. Ushijima Wakatoshi is nothing like you expected, and it’s hard to wrap your head around the mythical creature your mother talks about and the Ushijima you know.

Only a few days later, while you’re moping on your bed because you’re technically semi-grounded and neither Kaasan nor Tousan plan on bringing you to the Ushijima residence, Kaasan barges into your room, letting the door swing open without knocking. She always does that, even though she complains when you do the same, and then complains more when you point out the double standard.

Kaasan takes a deep breath, then lets it out. Her arms are folded tightly, her lips pressed together. She doesn’t look mad, though. Just a little worried. “Do you remember Ushijima-kun?”

“It’s not like I can forget him,” you grumble, poking at the threading on your bedspread with your nail. 

“Well, Ushijima-kun has asked for you to come visit the estate again. He enjoyed your company, and after talking it over with Ushijima-san, we’ve agreed that you can be his playmate,” she says. “But! I need you to listen to me. You have to be careful around Ushijima-kun, all right?”

“I’m always careful,” you say.

“I’m serious,” Kaasan says. Her voice carries a low intensity, and it’s different from her usual frazzled or exhausted tone when she’s lecturing you. She’s worried, really worried, and at the change in her voice, you sit up straight, staring straight into her eyes. “You and Ushijima-kun are going to be friends, but you can never forget that the two of you live in different worlds. Never, ever forget that. Can you promise me?”

You nod, a slow, sweeping motion. There’s a weird feeling in your chest. You can’t quite name it yet, but it’s distinctly uncomfortable, the knowledge that Ushijima, a boy your age, could make Kaasan so apprehensive. It’s wrong, somehow, for a kid to wield that sort of power over an adult, especially one as tough as Kaasan.

“I promise,” you say. It’s the only thing you can say. “I promise I’ll never forget.”

You’re shuffled to Ushijima’s home the next morning alongside your parents, staring out the window as his house comes into view. You’re struck again by how big it is, how imposing. It could easily swallow your entire house whole, and you’re not even sure if Ushijima even uses all the rooms you wandered through last time. What’s the point of a room you can’t even use, anyways?

This time, Kaasan ushers you through the main house and drops you off in a stuffy guest room. Ushijima is already waiting there, legs folded under him in a proper sitting position, his back so straight you could probably align it with a ruler, with a collection of dry cookies and warm tea placed in front of him.

“Be good. I’ll come get you when I’m done,” Kaasan whispers.

You settle uncomfortably in front of Ushijima, who simply pushes the plate of cookies towards you.

“Hello,” he says. “How was your journey here?”

You poke at a cookie. It crumbles under your touch, and when you place it in your mouth, a shower of crumbs rains from your mouth as you chew and talk. “It was fine. How are you?”

“I’m doing well.” A pause. “Thank you for coming over again. I enjoyed playing with you.”

You finish chewing and swallow. You then pick up a cup of tea and guzzle it down as Ushijima watches politely. You want to listen to Kaasan and be as polite as you can, but you’re going to die of boredom if you have to keep acting like this.

“Want to go play in the garden and look at bugs?” you ask. Surely that can’t be against the rules, especially if you make sure not to get any mud on your clothes. 

Ushijima blinks owlishly at you. Once, twice. “All right,” he says.

“Yay! Let’s go, Waka-chan!”

“Waka-chan?”

“That’s my nickname for you,” you say unrepentantly, and jump out of your seat.

The two of you spend a successful afternoon looking at bugs, and then catching them when you’re tired of just looking. You think you saw Ushijima smiling once or twice, especially when you shoved your hands in his face to show him a chirping cricket, beaming proudly at your accomplishments. But it’s awfully hard to tell when he’s smiling or not, so maybe you were wrong.

Your knees are a little muddy by the end of your adventures, and Kaasan narrows her eyes when she sees you, because she always has a sixth sense for when you do things you shouldn’t, but Ushijima only says, “See you tomorrow,” and when you excitedly wave at him before you leave, he gives a small wave back.

—

Your playdates with Ushijima falls into a routine after that. Since your parents spend most of their time at the Ushijima estate, they bring you along with them whenever they travel to work, and so you end up spending most of your days with Ushijima. From the early hours of the morning until your parents return home in the evening, it’s a summer schedule of nonstop Ushijima Wakatoshi.

It’s not too bad, though. After your initial impressions, you decide you like him. He’s a little quiet and weird, and he’s definitely more put-together than you are, but he always follows you around. Whenever you suggest a game, he’s always willing to try anything at least once.

He’s just another elementary schooler like you, and you like making new friends. Besides, it must be boring being by himself in such a large estate, with no one to talk to but other adults. No wonder his speech is so formal.

During that summer, you draw chalk outlines on the sidewalk outside until your hands are covered in a fine rainbow dust, jump rope and shoot plastic water guns, or just play whatever nonsensical game you want to in the garden, sunflowers waving around you, pretending to be frogs or pirates or whatever creature has caught your attention that day.

There is one game that Ushijima seems to like in particular, that he always gravitates back to: volleyball. If you don’t have any suggestions for the day, then Ushijima pulls out a worn white ball, scuffed and faded from repeated use, before you can offer up a different game. Ushijima handles it like it’s an old friend, with a care and reverence you’ve never seen him treat anything else.

You’ve played a little volleyball during gym class in your local elementary school, but Ushijima moves like a professional. He knows the names of all the positions on court, the strategies, and hits the ball so hard it makes your hands hurt when you try to receive it. He’s always lecturing you on proper posture, and you might have hated it if it wasn’t for the way he looked, solemn and focused, and the way, as rare and precious as a miracle, he would smile.

“Why do you like volleyball so much, Waka-kun?” you ask. You’re passing the ball back and forth in an easy rally, though on occasion it’ll bounce off your arm or Ushijima will fail to send it back to you properly, and you’ll have to chase after it.

“Because it’s fun,” he tells you seriously, as if he’s a grown-up discussing the economy. “And because of Otousan.”

“Your father?”

“Yes,” Ushijima says. “Ah.” The volleyball bounces off his arm and rolls towards the patch of sunflowers. Ushijima runs after it, and you follow.

“Otousan taught me how to play. He used to play as well,” Ushijima says, crouching down to pick up the volleyball. You crouch down next to him. Neither of you move to stand up right away.

The sunflowers have finally bloomed, unfurling bright yellow petals. They sway gently overhead, suffusing the air with a faint golden light, shielding the two of you from the rest of the world. For a few moments, the two of you stay silent, watching the flowers move overhead.

“He also planted these flowers before he left,” Ushijima says.

“They’re pretty. Do you like them?”

“I like them,” he says. “But there is something he said I don’t like. He told me that if I missed him, I should look at these flowers.”

Maybe that was why, the first day you saw him, Ushijima had been crouched in the garden. Was he thinking about his father?

You draw your knees closer to your chest, resting your chin against them. Ushijima is watching the flowers, but you’re watching him. He’s like a sunflower himself, tall and strong, with a steady gaze. There’s a faint furrow on his forehead, his eyebrows drawn together like two lost furry caterpillars, and you press one finger firm against the wrinkle.

He turns to you, confused, and you stick your tongue out at him. After a beat, he sticks his tongue back out at you, mirroring your gesture. It pleases you more than it should. “You don’t want to just look at the sunflowers, do you?”

“The sunflowers are not Otousan,” he says simply. “And he does not contact us often.”

“Don’t you call him, though?”

“I do not.”

“Why not?” you press.

“I don’t want to bother him,” he says. “He lives in America now.”

“But Waka-chan,” you say. “Aren’t you lonely?”

Ushijima frowns at your words. He speaks slowly, as if he’s taking the time to process his thoughts. “Lonely? I think, when he left, I was. But I’m not anymore.” He’s always giving you the most serious and efficient answers, no matter what your questions might be.

“That’s good,” you say. “But if you ever want to call your dad, we can do it together.” You stick out your pinky at him. “Promise.”

“Okay,” Ushijima says. He slowly curls his pinky around yours. There’s a funny expression on his face, like he doesn’t know whenever to smile or cry, and it looks a little like a budding sunflower. “I promise.”

—

When summer finally comes to an end and school resumes again in fall, you think you might not see Ushijima again. Your arrangement was convenient when you were both on break, after all, and had all the time in the world to see each other. But your lives have diverged once again, because Ushijima goes to a private academy that’s a thirty minute drive away and you attend the local public school that you walk to every morning.

You were just starting to get used to him, too. But your lives could only ever converge in that one perfect moment, when your parents had the time to bring you to his house while they worked, and you were free to spend the time as you pleased. Now, you have to return to your ordinary lives.

So it’s a surprise when, on the weekend after your first week back to school, when you’re getting ready for a day of wandering around the neighborhoods and seeing what plants are still in bloom and if any leaves have started to change color, Kaasan calls you into the kitchen. She’s making onigiri at the counter, apron pulled tightly around her waist, and shaping the rice with expert hands into perfect, fluffy triangles.

“Hi, Kaasan,” you say, arms pulled behind your back, standing on your tiptoes to peer at the filling she’s using. Salmon, pickled plum, and just plain white rice. “I’m not getting into trouble, I promise.”

“That’s not why I called you in here,” she says, then pauses. “And you know it’s suspicious when you tell me that, right? Are you getting into trouble?”

If sneaking into the neighbor’s yards to stare at their flowers up close counts as trouble, then yes. It’s not your fault that the roses are so pretty, though. And the neighbors are rude, which is why you have to sneak in. “No.” “Right. Well, Ushijima-san has contacted me.” “Yeah?” Your interest is perked, but you try to act as casually as you can. “She did? Did Waka-chan say anything?”

Kaasan lets out a choked, startled noise at Ushijima’s nickname. It sounds like a dying bird. “Not fully. But she wanted to know if you would be interested in taking volleyball lessons with Ushijima-kun. He asked her if you could attend alongside him.” Kaasan pauses, her hands kneading harder, faster. “He’s never asked for anything like this before.”

“I’d like to play volleyball with Waka-chan,” you say instantly. It doesn’t even take you a second of consideration; you like volleyball, and you like Ushijima, and you like playing volleyball with Ushijima. Ergo, you want to play volleyball with him. Those things just go together in your mind, you and Ushijima and volleyball. Like rice, seaweed, and salmon to make the perfect onigiri.

“All right. I’ll let her know.” Kaasan still hasn’t turned around to face you.

“Kaasan?”

“Hm? What is it?”

You dig one slippered foot into the floor of the kitchen. “Are you mad at something?”

“No, no. I’m not. Unless you’re getting into trouble, in which case I am. It’s just… I’m glad you’re making friends with Ushijima-kun. I didn’t expect the two of you to get along so well. And Ushijima-san is nice enough to offer to pay for your lessons, too. But I don’t want you to take it for granted, all right? Their kindness is appreciated, but we can’t rely on it too much. Tousan and Kaasan can take care of you, too.”

Her words are a little confusing to you. Are volleyball lessons such a big deal? Adults are weird, and Kaasan in particular is always overthinking things. She always keeps the Ushijimas at such a distance and speaks politely to them, despite the fact Kaasan can talk on and on when she runs into her friends at the market. Tousan rarely talks to the Ushijimas whenever he’s on the premises, but then again, Tousan isn’t chatty in general.

“I remember our promise, Kaasan,” you tell her instead. “I haven’t forgotten.”

“Okay. That’s good. Now run along, unless you want to help me make onigiri.”

The next day, Tousan has dropped you off in front of a private gym, a behemoth of glass and steel with a fancy, whirring automatic door. You clutch the strings of your knapsack tightly; inside, you’ve packed your worn gym shoes and water bottle, as well as a towel and a few wrapped onigiri from Kaasan as a snack when you get hungry.

“Have fun,” Tousan calls. “I’ll come back later.”

He speeds off, and you’re alone. Somehow, the inside of the gym is more dizzying than the exterior: sleek furniture, the cool hum of an air conditioner, a few potted plants in the corner. It’s almost like you’ve teleported to an alternative universe.

But to your relief, Ushijima is waiting close to the entrance, settled in a chair with his posture as perfect as always, frowning down at a book in his hands.

“Waka-chan!” you say, voice perking up, waving your hands wildly as you approach him. “What’re you reading?”

“A math textbook. I am studying the assigned pages from my tutor for our next session together,” he says. You glance at his book to see a row of complicated equations and numbers swimming across the page.

“Oh. Well, I’m here now, so you should talk with me instead!”

“All right,” Ushijima says. “What should we talk about?”

“We should talk about volleyball,” you say instantly. “Thank you for asking Ushijima-san if we could take lessons together!”

“I wanted to spend more time with you,” he says. “We would not have an opportunity to do so during the school semester.”

“Well, I also like spending time with you,” you say, grinning. Your heart flutters at his words, like wind rustling through petals. Ushijima never says anything he doesn’t mean, and though you’ve gotten better at reading him, it’s still relieving to hear that he feels the same way you do. “And I like playing volleyball with you, too, Waka-chan. But if you’re not careful, I might become an even better player than you!”

There’s a faint smile on Ushijima’s face. “I’d like to see you do that.” 

“Ushijima-kun!” An vaguely familiar-looking man in athletic shorts and with a bag slung over his shoulder calls out to the two of you, salt and pepper hair spilling out of the cap on his head. You stare at him as he approaches, but Ushijima simply closes his textbook and puts it away in his bag, standing up to bow at the man. You decide to follow suit, bowing and then sticking out your hand for good measure. “Hi!” you chirp, introducing yourself by name. The coach’s eyes wrinkle at the corners as he smiles. His grip is strong and firm, and you can feel the callouses on his palm. “Oh, so you’re the one that Ushijima begged to join his volleyball lessons?” “I did not beg,” Ushijima says, unruffled. “I asked.” The coach laughs. “Well, I’m Coach Kasamatsu, and I may not look like it now, but I used to play for the V.League. You know, I really wasn’t interested in coaching, but I knew Ushijima-kun’s father in high school, and when I heard his son was looking for a private coach, I couldn’t say no to an old friend.”

That’s why Coach Kasamatsu looks familiar, despite you never meeting him before now. You must have seen him on television from time to time out of the corner of your eye, when Tousan flips through sports channels to watch on lazy afternoons. Coach Kasamatsu is famous, but he doesn’t feel like it, not with how down-to-earth and approachable he seems, the way he looks you straight in the eye and talks as if you’re an adult.

It’s not the first time you’ve thought this, but Ushijima really lives in a world far apart from yours, one where it’s easy for him to brush elbows with the famous and powerful. You wouldn’t have dreamed of meeting a professional volleyball player on your own, let alone have him teach you how to play, but this is simply an unremarkable aspect of Ushijima’s life.

The volleyball lesson itself lasts for an hour. You and Ushijima run through warm-ups and then basic drills, while Coach Kasamatsu lectures you on the proper form for serving, receiving, and even the way you’re supposed to move around the court. Near the end of the session, he has the two of you practice spikes, and Ushijima lands every hit with a solid connecting swing, the volleyball bouncing so high you think it might have touched the heavens if only the roof didn’t get in its way. 

You do your best as well, but you can’t help notice there’s a gap between you and Ushijima. He might make a mistake from time to time, but never as much as you. Then again, you’ve only ever played with him for fun. You’ve never had a real coach before, and any other time you played volleyball, it was for gym class in school.

By the end of your session, you’re sweaty, tired, and a little sore. Ushijima doesn’t look like he’s breathing hard at all, despite the exertion turning his face red. It feels a little unfair somehow.

At the end of the lesson, you’re both waiting in the lobby to be picked up. You swing your legs against your seat, and Ushijima sits with the same posture he did before, when you first walked in. 

His ride is the first to arrive, a sleek black car pulling into view. Even this is different from your life; he has someone whose job it is to just drive him and his family around.

“See you next week,” Ushijima says politely. He bows at you, the picture of poise and grace. You wouldn’t have guessed he just ran around a gym for an hour.

You mimic his actions, knapsack sliding over your head as you do so. “See you next week, Waka-chan!”

He smiles at you again, causing that funny feeling to blossom in your chest. You smile back at him, and it feels like you have the sun caught in your mouth. You really are happy that you can play volleyball with Ushijima. He’s basically your best friend, and because he is, you push all of your bad feelings away, somewhere you don’t have to think about them again. 

—

Your life with Ushijima continues at its careful, meticulous pace even once you graduate elementary school and enter middle school. But Ushijima has always liked his routines and his plans, so maybe it shouldn’t surprise you that once he’s decided on something, he doesn’t quite like to see it change.

Ushijima goes to a private school named Shiratoriza, with fees so exorbitant it makes your eyes hurt just to see the number, and you go to another local public school that’s within commuting distance of your home.

Every weekend, you see him for volleyball lessons. Ushijima is on his school’s boys volleyball team, and you’ve joined your own school’s team as well. It feels like something that connects the two of you, even when you aren’t in the same place. During breaks, you visit him as often as you can get away with, tagging along with your parents when they drive off to work, barring the fancy parties he has to attend, the plans you make with other friends, or the trips you make to visit your respective grandparents. 

When you’re at the estate, Ushijima-san, his mother, is kind to you. She offers you your favorite snack foods to eat whenever you visit, asks about your life at school and your friends. She never seems to mind whatever you get up to with Ushijima, whether it’s working on summer homework or playing games in the garden.

His grandmother, the Ushijima matriarch, never seems to be around too much. You’ve only spoken to her a handful of times, and her overwhelming presence kept your eyes glued to the floor. Out of all the family, you get along with her the least, and you’re happy to stay out of her way.

There’s something about the way she looks at you that makes it feel like she’s always assessing you, trying to fit you into place. She doesn’t seem cruel, but a lack of malice isn’t the same as being kind.

In your third year of middle school, you’re studying for Shiratorizawa’s high school entrance exams during a winter weekend spent at Ushijima’s house. It feels like your brain is stuffed full of English vocabulary words and math equations. From morning to night, you’re chained to your collection of textbooks and flashcards, diligently combing over every possible topic that could pop up on the exams.

You try to review old tests and you’ve even signed up for the cheapest, most efficient cram school that you can afford, one that eats up your evening hours, meaning you don’t come home until the sun has set and you shovel a mouthful of dinner into your mouth before collapsing into bed, exhausted, kanji dancing in your mind’s eye.

Shiratorizawa is prestigious, and there’s no way you can get in without a scholarship. Though you and your team excel well enough at volleyball, you’ve never actually gone to nationals, despite coming close this last season. If you can’t rely on an athletic scholarship, you’ll need to rely on an academic one. Your grades aren’t bad, but you need to be more than just good; you need to be the best.

It’s not the easiest choice in the world, choosing to attend Shiratorizawa. There’s the cost of the uniforms, the entrance fees, and the yearly tuition that’s such a staggering number Tousan almost fainted when he saw the total.

Shiratorizawa is the best choice for your future, but it doesn’t hurt that Ushijima Wakatoshi is going to attend, too. Not that you’re basing your decision solely on him.

Once, Ushijima-san offered to help cover your fees when she heard you were trying to attend. Something about how your parents are valued employees, how she’s impressed with your work ethic, and how she’s willing to make an investment in your future. It was a kind thing to do, but for the first time in your life, you understood why Kaasan had looked so upset when Ushijima-san paid for your volleyball lessons.

“No,” you told her. “I’ll get in on my own merit.”

Maybe Ushijima himself is being considerate of your efforts, because whenever you hang out lately, the two of you inevitably end up studying together. He’s never said a word to you about your ambitions, but there’s always tea and fruit piled up on the table, the cushions are laid out and fluffed, and he always has a new test booklet to lend you. 

He’s supporting you, in his own taciturn way. Ushijima would never wish you luck or tell you to do your best, because your success will not be born out of luck or circumstance, but it will come as an inevitability, the culmination of all of your effort. 

It’s on one of these study sessions when you’re taking a quick break, a five minute walk shuffling down the halls, wondering if you can get Ushijima to quiz you on vocabulary words again, when you see her, like a ghost emerging from the mist. Ushijima’s grandmother. 

She’s dressed in a simple cream sweater, but she’s nothing like Obaachan, who Kaasan says you take after, friendly and boisterous. Instead, she’s elegance incarnate, like a flower turned into a human, from the way she takes each silent step with deliberate precision, to her solid, graceful posture, an echo of Ushijima’s own.

You bow your head instinctively as you press yourself to the wall of the hallway, waiting for her to pass you.

But she doesn’t. Instead, she stops directly in front of you. You’re looking down at the edges of your slippers, heart in your throat. 

“You’re Wakatoshi’s friend, aren’t you? The one who comes over all the time?”

“Yes,” you mumble, then repeat it in a clearer voice. “Yes, I am.”

“The child of the handyman and one of our servants.” It’s not a question, so you don’t answer. “I’ve seen you around. I hope you remember your place.”

She doesn’t say it with any malice, none of the overwrought anger or disdain like you’ve seen in romance dramas on television, the angry speeches from overprotective mothers about how “you’re not good enough for my son” when the impoverished female lead strikes up a relationship with the rich ceo’s son. No, she says it like it’s a simple fact and nothing more, and that somehow hits you harder than if she had said something cruel.

You’re frozen, and you can just barely raise your head to look at her in the face. In the dim light of the hallway, she seems to loom over you, beady eyes glinting like dark pearls, or perhaps the lightless eye of an eagle surveying the land right before it finds a rabbit and dives.

“Wakatoshi is very kind to you, and my daughter likes you as well. But you belong to two different stations in life. You will get hurt if you presume there is something more to it. I hope you remember that. We are a traditional family, and there are certain hopes I have for Wakatoshi.”

You can barely process her walking away, brisk and efficient. She’s said her piece to you as if you’re just another task to check off on her list. For a long time, you stand in the hallway, only aware of the slow sound of your own breathing. In, out. In, out. In, out.

It’s funny how her words are the same as Kaasan’s: the same warning, the same lecture. You’ve never really forgotten Kaasan’s words, but it had been easier to ignore them before, to not understand what they meant. You liked Ushijima, and Ushijima liked you, so that was all you were concerned about. Maybe, as a child, nothing else really mattered. But you couldn’t stay children forever, could you? 

Ushijima Wakatoshi is the heir of the Ushijima family, and he can afford to have a famous athlete as his personal volleyball coach and a cushy ride to a private school. You’re just the child of his household servants. That’s the truth, as immutable as the families you were born to and your respective opportunities in life.

“You were gone for a while,” Ushijima says when you return.

“I got stuck in the bathroom,” you say, sliding back into your seat across from him, keeping your head down so he can’t see your expression. “Waka-chan, can you quiz me? I need help with some vocabulary words.”

—

The day you make it into Shiratorizawa, your parents take you out to a local restaurant with worn booths and laminated, hand-written menus, letting you order whatever you want without complaint. You’ve earned one of the hardwon academic scholarships, which means your continued enrollment is dependent on your good grades. It looks like your days of endless studying aren’t coming to an end any time soon.

Every Shiratorizawa student lived in the dorms, so this would be the last time you see your parents in a while, like a final hurrah to your childhood.

“Our clever child,” Tousan says fondly. “Do your best at Shiratorizawa. We’ll support you.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard him say at one time. He must be excited, or the two glasses of beer he’s already downed in celebration are getting to his head. 

“So you’re going to Shiratorizawa, huh,” Kaasan asks. “Are you excited?”

“Yes,” you say. “I’ll do my best. I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

“I’d never be disappointed in you,” Kaasan chides. She’s quiet for a beat before she slides a piece of marinated beef onto your plate. “Ushijima-kun goes there, too, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah, but it’s not like I chose to go there just because he does,” you say quickly, defending yourself when you see her eyebrows raise at the admission. “Shiratorizawa is the best school in the prefecture.”

“Well, the two of you have always been close, so I’m sure it didn’t hurt that Ushijima-kun is there,” she teases.

“I’m not answering that,” you huff. “But you don’t need to worry, Kaasan. I know my place.”

She should have been happy with your words. Hasn’t it been something Kaasan has warned you about, since the very beginning? You’ve always caused her so much trouble, but for once, you’re heeding her warnings. Instead, her lips droop into a frown, and there’s a troubled expression on her face.

“Hvae some more meat,” Tousan interrupts. He’s sliding another piece of beef onto your plate, and now it’s overflowing with a mountain of meat. “We’re celebrating, and you have to eat well! You’ll need all the strength you can get to do well in school.”

That night, you call Ushijima with the news. You’ve been debating over whether to tell him or not, but he did help you study. Also, the two of you are still friends. You’re not going to let his grandmother control your life that much.

As soon as the call goes through, you start talking before he even has the chance to say hello. “I got in,” you say.

“Congratulations,” he says simply. “We will be classmates in the upcoming school semester.”

“That’s only if we’re in the same class,” you say. “There’s a chance we’re going to be put in different ones, Ushijima-kun.”

There’s a beat of silence. For some reason, you imagine Ushijima cocking his head like an inquisitive bird. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask. “You’re more quiet than usual.”

“My name,” he says. “You did not call me Waka-chan.”

It feels a little ridiculous to hear Ushijima say that cutesy nickname with such gravity. Like it really means something to him, your silly childhood nickname, given only on a whim. “Well, it’s kind of childish, you know? And we’re not kids anymore. So I wanted to use something more serious. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable when we’re in high school!”

“I would not be uncomfortable.”

“Still. Other people might say something.”

“You could call me Wakatoshi.”

You tighten your grip on your phone until the metal cuts into your palm. His grandmother also calls him Wakatoshi. “No, I don’t think that’d be right. You’re Ushijima-kun,” you say firmly. “Okay? I’ll see you at the entrance ceremony.”

You hang up before he can respond, and you know it’s a coward’s move, because you just can’t bear what he might say. Your arm drops to your side, phone slipping onto the hardwood floor with a plastic clatter. 

On the ceiling, you can see the glow-in-the-dark stars you once pasted as a child, and they still glow with a faint neon luminescence, even now. This is your room, small and comfortable, full of trinkets from friends and vacations, seashells and rocks and plastic gachapon toys, old notes and doodles and books borrowed that you’d never returned, with markers and scuffs on the wall. It’s cozy and a far cry from Ushijima’s own palatial room, with its rich furnishings and lonely air, the only personal touches being his volleyball and textbooks.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the Shiratorizawa uniform that Kaasan starched and ironed that afternoon, painstakingly placing it on a hanger before draping it across your desk chair, mindful of any creases. She handled the royal purple fabric with such care, and you can imagine her doing the same for Ushijima’s uniform if that was part of her job that day. If not, one of his other servants would iron it instead.

Ushijima Wakatoshi. You. You live in two different worlds, as far as the distance between the plastic stars on your ceiling and the cold, glittering stars outside.

—

During your first year at Shiratorizawa, you decide to quit volleyball and focus solely on academics. 

Outwardly, you reason that you’re not on a sports scholarship, but an academic one, so it makes more sense for you to focus on your studies, and join something like the student council instead. Inwardly, you’re much too old to keep relying on Ushijima-san’s kindness to pay for your private lessons. Unlike Ushijima, volleyball isn’t in your future, so it doesn’t make sense for you to keep pursuing it.

“You could join as a manager,” Ushijima offers, when he notices that instead of heading to the gym for volleyball practice and tryouts, you’re heading towards the student council office.

“It’s okay! I think I’ve gained everything I need to from volleyball. Besides, I heard your coach is super intense! I don’t think I’ll get along with him,” you say earnestly. It’s excuses, all excuses, but you try to put as much cheer in your voice as you can.

“I see.”

And that’s the end of that conversation, as painless as it always is with Ushijima. He never pushes you for more than you’re willing to give. It’s both relieving and disappointing, all at once, that he never asks for more.

When you close your eyes at night in your dorm room, you think of Ushijima’s grandmother’s words. You and Ushijima are from different worlds, and maybe you’re just going to drag him down. What does your friendship really do for him?

The two of you are still friends, of course. It’s not as if you’re going to pretend almost a decade of memories means nothing to you, and you don’t want to let someone else dictate your relationship. 

Sometimes, you wish you were children again, or that you’d met him just a little earlier, back before you were old enough to know what it meant for your family to work for his. That’s a pipe dream, though, and a few years of extra time together aren’t going to be enough to make up for the distance you’re trying to put between the two of you now.

But Ushijima keeps going on stubbornly forward, as if there’s nothing different about your life at all. If he notices you’ve withdrawn, then he doesn’t make any note of it. Volleyball practice tends to run longer than student council meetings, so he asks you to wait for him to finish so the two of you can head to the dorms together. Sometimes, if you’re busy prepping for school events and meetings run late, he’s the one waiting patiently outside the student council room for you to finish.

He has lunch with you, placing his tray right next to yours no matter who you’re sitting with, even if your friends tend to fall silent at his sudden presence, cowed by his reputation and the magazine articles emblazoned with his accomplishments. You see him everyday, because he always makes time to seek you out, regardless of the weather or your respective schedules, even if it’s only for a brief, five minute chat before he has to run or someone grabs your attention.

You make friends with some of Ushijima’s teammates by proxy, just because your lives are so braided together. The Shiratorizawa boy’s volleyball team is intimidating, and you’ve seen their posters plastered in the halls, tall boys with lean muscle, an array of awards, and a consistent presence at nationals. Everyone knows their names, and they’re the pride of the school.

Tendou is the one you’re closest to and the most approachable, though you say hi to Leon, Semi, and Hayato when you pass them in the halls, if only because you’re in the same year together. Tendou lopes through the hall without a care in the world, always looping his arm around your shoulder when he sees you like he’s about to sell you a knock-off watch.

He does this regardless if you’re alone, with a friend, or chatting with Ushijima. He always does this when he spots you with Ushijima especially, pulling you close like you’re a ragdoll. 

“On a date without me?” Tendou will say in a singsong voice. 

“It’s not like that, Satorin,” you’ll reply amiably. 

There’s always an imperceptible flicker across Ushijima’s face whenever you use Tendou’s nickname, some spasm of emotion that you can’t quite catch but that makes Tendou burst into uproarious laughter.

“Ohhh, never change, you two,” he’ll say, dramatically wiping at the corner of his eyes and flicking his fingers.

Life might have continued on in this way with Ushijima stubborn and consistent as always, and you with your attempts to put a subtle wedge between the two of you that he never seems to notice, not until an injury during the end of your first year of high school.

It’s an accident, really. Carelessness on your part, from hitting the track too hard during P.E., feet pounding against the tarmac, pushing yourself faster and harder, heedless of the cries from your friends and teacher to slow down, until you trip spectacularly over some hard edge of the race track.

Then you go crashing down in front of everyone, like a ship running aground, momentum forced to a sudden halt as you lay dazed, trying to piece together what happened with blurry faces above you.

“They’re injured!” someone yells.

“You need to go to the nurse,” the teacher says with a click of her tongue, hands on her hips. 

“I’m fine,” you protest, attempting to stand, but pain lances through your leg as you do so. You must have sprained your ankle when you tripped.

Just when you think your humiliation couldn’t get even worse, what with eating dirt in front of your classmates, you yelp when a shadow falls over you and arms wind under your knees and around your back, and then you’re being lifted up into the air.

People giggle and titter as you cling precariously to whoever’s picked you up, wrapping your arms around a very familiar neck. It’s Ushijima. You’re eye level with him, so you can stare right into his placid gaze.

“Ushijima-kun?” you whisper, astonished. You can feel the furnace heat of his body, the increase of his body temperature from running laps around the court. The way he’s holding onto you is with a grip so solid and steady that for a second, you wonder if you’re ever going to be let down again.

“We’re going to the nurse’s.”

“You can put me down,” you protest, but he’s already striding away, the sound of your classmates gossiping ringing in your ears. You can already imagine the gossip that is going to circulate, and Tendou’s gleeful expression when he hears about what happened. You’re going to be fending off dating rumors for the next two weeks, at least until something more exciting happens to take the attention off of you.

“You’re injured,” he says. “It would not be wise for you to stand on your own.”

“Ushijima-kun–”

“No,” he says firmly. He’s cradling you close to him, as if you’re something precious, and you try to convince yourself the heat on your face is from the exertion of exercise, and nothing more.

You’re in the nurse’s office before long, and Ushijima carefully sits you down on one of the beds. The nurse is out, so Ushijima takes it upon himself to shuffle through the cabinets. You sink the mattress, watching as he expertly sorts through medical supplies with a threadbare frown, pulling out an instant ice pack that he shakes to activate. 

“Does it hurt?” he asks, kneeling in front of you. It’s strange to look down on him like this, not when his own gaze is so earnest and the entirety of his intense concentration directed solely at you.

You look away. “No, it’s fine.”

“Does it hurt here?” Ushijima gently presses his fingers to your ankle, grazing the edge of your sock as he carefully caresses your skin. His touch tingles, but it’s probably because your ankle is tender and sensitive. It has nothing to do with the gentleness of his hands, not when you remember how he can hit a volleyball with so much force it can knock the opposing libero off their feet.

“Only a little,” you mumble, wincing when his fingers ghost across a particularly sore area.

He nods, and Ushijima presses the ice pack to your ankle, a sudden cold shock to your sweaty skin. For a second, neither of you say anything. Ushijima carefully considers your ankle, and you consider him, the fringe of his hair and his eyelashes, the sweat beading at his temples, the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Why do you no longer call me Waka-chan?”

It takes you a few seconds to process the question before you open your mouth. “It’s a childish nickname. I told you already.”

“You have not been coming over as often. And you quit volleyball.”

“Because,” you say. “I’m busy. We live in the dorms now. And volleyball is fun, but I don’t want a career in it.”

“Is there something wrong?” he says. Ushijima never minces his words, and he always, always cuts right to the heart of the matter.

You could lie here, and Ushijima would most likely accept it as the truth. Why would he doubt you? But the truth, which you’ve kept compressed for years, the uncomfortable feelings, the warnings from others, spills out like water from a full cup, overflowing and unstoppable: “We live in two different worlds, Ushijima-kun. I mean, think about it. Your family employs mine. You have access to things I never will. A relationship like ours shouldn’t work in the first place.”

“I do not care about that,” he says simply.

“But I do,” you insist. “You can say that you don’t care, but I do. I care. I think there should be more distance between the two of us.”

Ushijima doesn’t speak for a while, as if he’s pondering your words. Then, he says, “All right.”

It’s such a simple word, and you should be relieved. Here it is, what everyone wants from you, your mom and his grandma, your relationship is restored back to the way it should have been from the start. You finally know your place.

But why do you feel so awful? Why do you feel like you’re giving up? Why are you fighting back tears when you look at the top of his head, the swirling part of his hair, Shiratorizawa’s promising volleyball ace on his knees without question or complaint, just because you’re injured and he could think of nothing else than carrying you here and treating you himself?

Neither of you says anything again. The whole time, you look up at the ceiling and Ushijima keeps the ice pressed to your foot until the nurse returns and shoos him off.

“You’ll be fine,” she says briskly after checking your ankle, with hands decidedly more efficient and less tender than Ushijima’s. After all, to her, you’re just another patient. “Just some rest and continue icing your ankle, and you can be back to action by tomorrow. Are you all right? Does it still hurt?”

Your eyes are glassy with unshed tears, but you manage a weak smile. “No. I’m okay. It doesn’t hurt at all.”

—

Falling out is the wrong word to describe what happens next. It’s such a violent word, really, and implies there’s some sort of cataclysm, some large event that you can pinpoint as the direct cause. 

No, what happens is more purposeful and slow, a deterioration of your relationship with Ushijima as gradual as erosion, persistent water chipping at rock until it crumbles to pieces. 

And you know the cause, don’t you? It’s you who rang the death knell for your relationship.

Ushijima is not rude or cruel. He simply does what you ask for and keeps his distance. The two of you don’t stop talking, but you can go days without seeing him now. 

There’s a space Ushijima used to occupy by your side, some phantom pain where you used to have an extension of yourself, and it aches. You still find yourself turning to make a joke or express an errant thought, a reflex born from years of companionship, only to be met with empty air. Ushijima does what he says, and says what he does. Nothing more, nothing less. It’s an old-fashioned, honorable habit you find so endearing, even now.

Your second year of high school passes like that, at a cool, controlled, distant orbit around each other. Loving Ushijima and missing him are the same reflex, a practiced response born from your shared childhood, where he was always just one car ride, one call, one loud shout of his name away.

Is the proper way of doing things always so painful? Isn’t part of adulthood accepting that necessary things aren’t always so sweet or easy? And this is necessary, isn’t it? The best decision for Ushijima’s future, and your own? And you’re no longer a child, so you can swallow any bitter medicine easily, only you’re still waiting for the illness it’s supposed to cure to go away.

During Golden Week after the start of your third year of high school, you’re lounging at home when Kaasan calls you.

“I left my bento,” she says. “Take the bus and bring it to me at work. Go in through the side door!”

She hangs up before you respond, and you’re left speechless. You haven’t visited Ushijima’s house in three years, not since the moment the Ushijima matriarch reminded you of his place, and you would prefer to keep it that way. 

But Kaasan never allows for any argument, so reluctantly, you make your way over. Ushijima’s house isn’t that much different from when you were a child. It’s still the same imposing build with its furnishings kept elegant and sleek, but you drag your feet on the familiar hardwood floors that you once roamed, peering into rooms you once played in. They love keeping things as they are, the Ushijimas.

His grandmother is out. That, at least, is your only relief.

Kaasan pinches your cheek and reminds you to “be good” when you find her in the laundry room and present her with the bento. A quick in and out, your task done, you should be able to go home now.

However, you find yourself near the garden, sunflowers waving their stalks and buds at you like old friends, and you quietly step into the grass. The sunflowers haven’t begun to bloom yet, not at this time of year. That will come later, when the weather is warmer and softer. 

This is where you first met Ushijima, where everything in your life changed. Despite everything, it’s hard not to be fond of this place. You take a step closer, and pause.

There’s someone already there, sitting with crossed legs under the flowers, staring up at the leaves. It’s Ushijima, and for a second, you can’t breathe. There’s something about the arch of his back, the slope of his shoulders that seems so lonely. It’s like he’s still that kid again, the one who couldn’t admit that he missed his father, but still stared at the sunflowers he left behind everyday.

You should leave. There’s no place for you here. But you approach him instead, as if you’re that same kid, too, the one excited to make a new friend, who couldn’t leave that strange little boy in the garden alone. It’s too unbearable, the idea of abandoning him twice.

You sit next to Ushijima, leaving a respectable enough space between the two of you, legs pulled up to your chest. Ushijima doesn’t say anything. If you close your eyes, you can imagine the golden shadows of the flowers moving above you, a promise of everything they’ll become.

“The flowers are still here,” you say.

“Yes. They’re a perennial species, so they come back every year. With the right care, they can bloom for a long time.”

“I hope they bloom forever, Ushijima-kun.”

“That’d be impossible. Everything dies eventually.”

“I guess so. But you could always plant more,” you suggest. But would he even want to, when the original sunflowers were a gift from his father? What could ever replace that?

The silence weighs on you. You pluck at a blade of grass, rubbing it between your thumb and forefinger. In one of the shows you watched as a kid, one of the characters could play entire melodies by using a single blade as an instrument. You tried so hard as a kid to recreate that song, pulling up entire rows of grass with Ushijima, trying to find the perfect blade to make sing. That afternoon, your mouths and knees were stained green and Kaasan scolded you for hours.

“I miss you.” 

The words are unexpected, without hesitation or pretense. Ushijima says the words like they’re as easy as breathing, as easy as saying good morning or good night. You can’t look at him when he says that. You can’t. If you look at his face, his honest expression, the full weight of his unparalleled, unchanging adoration and regard for you, you’ll shatter into a thousand pieces.

“I told you. We need distance.”

“Did someone say something to you?”

You hesitate, twisting at the blade of grass until it snaps. Ushijima values his family, and you don’t want to cause a rift between them. “Even if someone did, I made this decision on my own.”

“Was it Obaasan?” he says evenly. Your ensuing silence is answer enough, and he continues. “I respect her greatly. Obaasan has always been strong, dedicated, and clever, and has tried to do what’s best for the family and me. But that does not mean I will always agree with the things she says. And you do not have to, either.”

“Ushijima-kun. You don’t even know what we talked about.”

“I do not need to know the details. I can imagine, because she does not hide herself, but I have never wanted to be her heir, or to be anyone but myself. And I already know that you are more than what other people tell you that you can be,” he says. “I like who you are, and who you try to be everyday.”

“How can you still like me?” you whisper. His words are painful, and you want nothing more than to run before they obliterate all the walls you’ve worked to maintain. “Ushijima-kun, I’m being terrible to you. I’m selfish, asking you to ignore our friendship. You should hate me.”

“Hating you is not something I can do,” he says. “Do you hate me?”

You bury your head in your arms, your voice muffled as you respond, “I could never hate you.”

“Then that is all I need.”

Neither of you move. For a while longer, during a stolen moment on a spring afternoon, the two of you sit side by side, accompanied by nothing but the budding sunflowers, heads pregnant with dreams of summer and the hope of blooming for another year longer.

—

You’re aimlessly flicking through television channels when you come home from giving Kaasan her bento, news reports and variety shows flashing by as you struggle to find something that catches your attention for longer than five seconds when Kaasan and Tousan return from work.

Your conversation with Ushijima that afternoon is still fresh in your mind, and you turn his words over and over, stones tumbling in river water until they’re worn smooth and small. To be yourself. To still be so loved, even now. Ushijima Wakatoshi, who is precious to you beyond words, beyond understanding.

“There you are. Have you eaten yet?” Kaasan asks. She’s at the edge of the couch, peering at you from where you lie slumped over, still flicking through channels before you settle on a variety show with some idol you vaguely recognize from magazines.

“Hmmm,” you say, a response that doesn’t satisfy her at all. “Yeah.”

You think that’s the end of it, or Kaasan is going to lecture you for wasting time on the television and somehow running up the electricity bill with your indecisive channel switching, but to your surprise, she settles on the couch next to you instead, folding her legs to the side.

“I saw you with Ushijima-kun today,” she says. 

“I didn’t talk about anything appropriate,” you say immediately. “I promise I’ve been keeping your words in mind, and—”

“I’m not going to lecture you. Unless you’ve done something that requires a lecture from me?”

“Kaasan!”

“I’m kidding,” she says, running an affectionate hand along your hair.

There are new lines around Kaasan’s eyes, and her hands are calloused from years of hard work and manual labor. Her hair is sparse, gray streaks sprouting in her hair like cracks breaking through the pavement. It makes your heart ache, and you lean into her shoulder.

“I hope you know,” Kaasan says, “That I’ve always been hard on you because I only want the best for you. I want you to have a good life, even if I’m not around to take care of you. And you’ve always been a little too rambunctious for your own good. Society isn’t nice to people who don’t fall in line, and I’m always, always afraid you’re going to get hurt.”

“I’m better about that now,” you protest.

“You are, and I’m proud of you. But I’ve always loved that spark in you, too, the part of you that isn’t afraid of anything, that knows what you want. And I’m worried that I stifled that.”

“You didn’t do anything. You were just telling me what was right.”

“No, I did,” Kaasan says. “You haven’t been happy since you decided to stop being friends with Ushijima-kun. He isn’t, either. Do you think I couldn’t tell? You used to talk about him all the time. You know, I was always a little resentful that it felt like Ushijima-san could give you things that I couldn’t. It felt like I was falling behind as your mother, so I resented her, and without meaning to, I took it out on you. And it’s true that your social standing is going to affect how you navigate the world, but I shouldn’t have made you feel small or worthless. 

“You and Ushijima-kun might come from different places, have different opportunities in your lives, but you are no less than him. You are going to have to work harder than him to get what you want, and the world is unfair in that way but instead of telling you to accept things as they are, I want you to eat the entire world.”

“Kaasan,” you whisper, burying your head in her shoulder. She runs a hand down your back, slow, affectionate, as the television blares out with tinny laughter and music. You can’t speak for a while, long-buried tears choking your voice. “Ushijima-kun’s grandmother… she told me that…”

“She said something, didn’t she? Don’t listen to her. She has her way of doing things, but you have yours. Don’t lose your spark,” she says. “I’ll support you. Go for the things you want. Within reason, of course.”

“I love you,” you mumble, tears thick in your throat. You feel like a little kid again, clinging to your mother like she’s a raft in a turbulent sea, the only thing sheltering you from the world outside.

“I love you, too, and I’m sorry.” Kaasan strokes your back, and you wish you could stay like this forever.

—

When you approach Ushijima at lunch the next day, it’s with a levity you haven’t experienced in months. He’s an island in a sea of empty seats, and you’re always guaranteed to snag a spot in the crowded cafeteria. People tend to cut him a wide berth as if there’s some unspoken rule that ordinary people can’t approach him. The only one who doesn’t seem to care is Tendou who chatters on about the manga he’s reading, though you aren’t sure how much of it Ushijima understands.

“Hi,” you say, dropping your tray down in front of the two of them. “Satorin, Waka-chan.”

Tendou’s words cease, as if a boulder has cut off the flow of his words. He tilts his head, eyes stretching unnaturally wide as if he’s trying to puzzle out this new development with his preternatural intuition. “Waka-channnn? You haven’t used that name before.”

“Well, I used to, and I miss using it,” you say. “Ushijima-kun is too stiff! I sound like Kaasan. You don’t mind, right, Waka-chan?”

“No, I do not,” Ushijima says, chewing his rice and swallowing before speaking, dabbing at his mouth with a napkin. “I prefer that name.”

“What have you two been up to?” you say. “Anything new on the volleyball court?”

Tendou leans forward, his hands gripping the edge of the table, launching into some detailed account of their practices, the new freshman who’s easy to tease, their prospective rivals and his predictions for how the season will go (which usually involves him making blocks to crush the opposing team’s spirits and hopes).

You nod along, but risk a glance at Ushijima. You can’t gauge his expression, but there is a lightness to his shoulders, an ease to the way he holds himself that hasn’t been there since you started distancing yourself from him.

It’s natural how you rejoin Ushijima’s world after that, as if you’re simply slotting into a place that was reserved for you from the beginning. You start seeking him out in the hallways between classes, during lunch, and wait for him after volleyball practice. You text him with every random thought in your head and complain about homework and annoying classmates.  

Now, you can wave at him whenever you see him in the halls, jump onto his back, and crack jokes as Ushijima nods seriously. It’s back to the way things used to be, but there’s something a bit different now in your interactions. There’s a newfound tenderness, reinforced by your painful year apart, as if you’re marveling at the miracle of each other’s presence.

But it’s not as if you’re just going to pretend nothing has happened. You apologize to him as soon as you muster up the courage for it a few days after you approach him during lunch. The sun is sinking low in the sky, and there’s a sheath of papers in your arms, forms from student council you’ll sort through later.

The school is empty, save for a few stragglers from sports practice that run late, but you and Ushijima are functionally alone. He’s carrying his bag and your bag, too, both slung carefully over his arm as you and him make your way down the gym steps. There’s still sweat clinging to his hair from volleyball practice.

“Waka-chan, I’m really sorry,” you say, hands tightening around your papers. “I want to apologize for how I’ve been acting. I hurt you, and that’s unacceptable. I shouldn’t have gotten up in the words of other people, or demanded that we stop being so close. I was selfish.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “You’re here now. And it is not as if you were wrong to be aware of our positions in life, and how that will affect our relationship.”

“But still,” you persist, “I made you feel lonely. I should have known better than to do that! And I feel like I’m taking advantage of your kindness, even now.”

“You’re not taking advantage of my kindness,” Ushijima says. “I’m doing this because I like you.”

“Well, I like you, too,” you say. “It’d be weirder if we didn’t like each other at this point, you know?”

“Yes,” he says. “But I also would like to date you once we graduate, with the intention of marriage.”

The papers fall from your arms, fanning out across the dusty ground. You’re no longer walking, and when Ushijima notices, he pauses and looks back. You don’t know where you should be looking—the sky, the ground, the papers on the floor you’ll need to pick up—but you most definitely cannot look at his face.

Ushijima bends down to collect the papers for you, and after a beat, you follow suit. It’d be wrong to make him do all the work, and it’s only once all the papers have been returned to your arms, albeit a bit more dirty than they were before, that you can speak.

“Do you even know what dating is, Waka-chan?” you say. “You only do that with people you really like.”

“I know,” he says, “That is why I would like to date you.”

“But,” you say. “But…” Your words trail off. There actually isn’t a refutal that you can think of.

“Do you not like me?”

Your heart feels like it’s exploding in your chest. There’s never really been any other answer to that question, is there? From childhood until now, even if the way you understand your own emotions have changed, in some aspects, they’ve always been the same. “I do. I like you a lot.”

“If our feelings are mutual, then all is well,” he says, nodding. “After graduation, I will have time to properly court you. I have been waiting since we were children to do so. I can wait a while longer.”

A strangled noise escapes you, like the dying call of a bird. Since you were children? Has he always been planning to do this?

“Are you all right?” Ushijima asks.

“Yes. Well, no. But also yes! Waka-chan…” you say. “It’s not fair that you confessed first! I wanted to do that.”

“You will have time in the future to do so,” he says. “Should I pretend we didn’t say anything just now, and you can confess to me during graduation?”

Is that a joke? Did Ushijima Wakatoshi, the most straitlaced, unbendable person you know, just make a joke? Maybe you are rubbing off on him. 

The two of you walk towards the dorm in the light of the setting sun, and the entire world feels like it’s been burnished in gold. You could continue like this forever—you and Ushijima, side by side, the most natural place for either of you to belong. 

—

There’s dirt under your fingernails as you carefully drop sunflower seeds into shallow, two and a half centimeter holes, smoothing over the moist, loamy soil once you’re done. You’ve tried to space each seed roughly fifteen centimeters apart, so that they’ll have room to grow when they finally bloom.

You wipe the back of your forehead with your hand absently, leaving behind a streak of dirt. You probably should have worn gloves, but you like the feeling of soil on your hands. It reminds you of when you were a child, playing in this very garden.

Before you can move, Ushijima brushes away the dirt on your face with a pristine white handkerchief, folding it over when he’s done and placing it carefully in his pocket. He’s situated right next to you, having finished with his side of the planting already.

“Thanks, Waka-chan,” you say, crouching back on your heels. “Tousan will help take care of them while we’re gone! I told him not to use any fertilizer, or to overwater the plants.”

He hums in affirmation. The sunflowers his father once planted have finally withered and died for good. You don’t want to see this patch of the garden stay empty, though, so on a day when Ushijima is free from volleyball practice and you don’t have any classes, you both agreed to make the trip from Tokyo to Sendai to plant some seeds.

“You should take a picture,” you say, surveying your work. For now, the area in front of you is pitifully bare dirt. But you know, just under the surface, the seeds you’ve planted are germinating, ready to stretch out tender roots. Even when you can’t see it, things are growing and changing. “Your dad’s going to want to see.”

Ushijima dutifully takes out his phone and snaps a picture, then angles it towards you. You hold up a peace sign as he takes a few more.

“Do they look good?” you ask.

“You look radiant,” he says simply. “Otousan will want to see that you’ve been doing well.”

You stand, stretching out your hands as high as they can reach. Your arms are a little sore from all of your work. Since you only recently joined the community volleyball team, you’re still getting used to the exertion again. “Okay, then let’s go see Kaasan and Tousan! Kaasan’s going to be mad if we’re late for lunch. And, Waka-chan—” You waggle your fingers until Ushijima obediently shuffles over, bending his head down and you kiss him on the lips, a brief, affectionate peck. “Let’s come back to see the sunflowers once they’re in bloom, okay?”

Ushijima is smiling at you now, something small and delicate, just like a flower bud. It feels like he’s been smiling more often these days, like when he got his contract with the Schweiden Adlers, or you got your internship with the Tokyo Metropolitan Government, or just whenever you surprise him in the stands during games. You want to bottle up his smile forever, just so you can carry it around and admire it on bad days.

You’re living together in an apartment in Tokyo, and with your respective busy schedules, it’s hard to find the time to see each other. But you make it work, and if nothing else, you like the assurance that when you come home, it’s to Ushijima. 

His grandmother might not be the biggest fan of your relationship, but it’s not as if you’re worried about what she thinks anymore. Besides, Ushijima-san, Kaasan, and Tousan are happy enough to see the two of you together, but even if they weren’t, you probably would have just eloped with Ushijima.

“All right. We’ll come back,” Ushijima says, granting your wish as easily as he grants all of them. He leans down to kiss you again, as if the first one wasn’t enough. His kiss is tender, lips lingering against yours, and it’s a promise for everything to come and the flowers yet to bloom.