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@whosmarjj @juie13

It’s the only step to take in your relationship that makes the most sense, according to your childish logic. Your grandmothers have been friends since they met in high school, inseparable old women with an unchanging weekly appointment to drink tea in your grandmother’s kitchen.

Even your parents are close; your fathers were childhood friends and grew up splashing by the riverbank and racing alongside empty stretches of open fields. Family holidays are often spent together, so it was an inevitability that you and Kita would end up being friends.

The two of you were born in the same hospital, and as your mother likes to joke, “When we put you two down on the same mat to play, you started reachin’ for Shin-kun instead of the toys! Ya even tried to bite him, and he didn’t cry a bit, just blinked real slow and let you nibble on his arm.”

And so the two of you are close, too. In cool, misty mornings, Kita waits outside your door so the two of you can walk to school together; he has an umbrella that he shares when it rains and a hat when it’s too sunny, and never misses a day to see you. During summers, you’re both sent up north to his grandmother’s home in the country, nothing to do but spend lazy days in the rice fields and taking Kita’s hand in your own as you come up with your own elaborate fantastical games.

A lot of times it feels like your relationship is the same as when you were babies: you drag Kita around and he follows willingly, the voice of reason to every impulsive plot you come up with. If Kita is popular with the neighborhood grannies for his manners and mature demeanor, then you’re popular with the other kids for your cheer and athletic prowess at every neighborhood game.

“What do I gotta do to keep Shin-kun with me?” you asked Kaasan once, as she trimmed edamame in the kitchen with a pair of scissors. “Why’s he gotta go home everyday? I wish he was around forever.”

“Why don’t ya marry him?” she said mischievously, tapping her chin with her free hand. “That made sure yer Tousan would come home to me every night.”

Her words lit a spark in your brain. You can’t imagine a life without Kita; he’s been by your side since you were born. To lose him would be like losing a limb, unimaginable and devastating. And since Kaasan is one of the smartest adults you know, this must be the best way to keep him with you.

This is how you find yourself, on a routine weekend playdate exploring the nearby park, with flushed cheeks and clammy hands, stems wilting from the strength of your grip. Kita is sitting crosslegged in the field, flowers in hand, considering your words with the same gravity he considers everything in life, from the instructions of his teachers to laminated menus at the local diner.

“I’m sorry,” Kita says seriously. His eyes are wide and piercing, and you can see the world reflected in them. “But we can’t get married. You gotta be an adult to get married. And Obaasan always says when you want ta do something, you gotta take yer time with it, especially if it’s something ya care about.”

“Oh. But I like ya, Shin-kun,” you add helplessly. But you already know that Kita makes decisions carefully, and once he makes up his mind on something, he rarely changes it.

“And I like ya, too,” Kita says. 

“But we can’t get married?”

“We can’t get married now,” he says. “Because marriage’s a big decision. Ya can’t rush into it.”

“Okay, but do you still want my flowers? They’re the best ones I found. The biggest and prettiest,” you add hopefully. The fat white petals of the daisies droop in your hands, as if they, too, are dejected by Kita’s rejection.

“Yeah,” Kita says. He takes your flowers with a solemn reverence.

“Let’s make flower crowns,” you say. “I wanna make one for Kaasan.”

“Okay,” Kita says. 

The sting of his rejection passes like a summer rainstorm, brief and temporary. Kita is still your friend, the one nearest and dearest to your heart, even if he doesn’t want to marry you. There are other things to worry about, anyways, like your homework and what sort of bento Kaasan is going to pack for lunch tomorrow.

(You don’t notice the way Kita glances carefully at you through his eyelashes, gaze thoughtful as he considers your question). 

Kita’s hands are deft as he weaves your flowers together into a crown, braiding stems together with a careful, slow ease. The flowers are spaced evenly apart, bright heads facing outwards. In contrast, your work is swift but a tad more clumsy, and you rip more than one petal in your haste to complete your work. 

“This is for you,” Kita says, placing it gently on your head. He adjusts the band so it no longer rests so lopsidedly.

“Thank you, Shin-kun!” you say. “Does it look good?”

He nods seriously. “Real good.” 

“I made ya one, too!” You hold up your flower crown. The flowers are spaced unevenly and your weaving is loose in sections, but Kita regards it as if you’ve presented him with a priceless treasure.

“Thank you,” Kita says. “Will you put it on me?”

In response, you plop it on his head, where it tilts sideways, one end closer to his ear.

“We’re matching,” you say, smiling.

You spend another half hour in the fields before you tire of your work, eager to present the fruits of your labor to your parents, as you’ve made flower crowns for both of them. Kita’s crown is still placed on your head when you turn to head inside, waving vigorously at Kita as he waves back before turning and walking down the sidewalk towards his own home. He only lives a few minutes away, but still, you stand in the doorway until you can’t see him, not even blinking, eyes burning, trying to preserve the memory of his dear back.

(For the next few days after that, Kita painstakingly presses and preserves the flowers you’ve given him. The dried flowers sit on a shelf in his room, and whenever he passes them by, he considers them carefully. Marriage, after all, is a big decision).

—

“Shin-kun doesn’t want to marry me. I asked,” you tell Kaasan the next day, sitting at the dining table with your reading homework spread around you, your collection of colorful pencils rolling across the surface. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Kaasan says. She’s across from you, marking her own documents, laptop and manila files organized in a neat square on the table. “Are you sad about it?”

“I was but, but I’m not anymore.”

“What if Shin-kun marries someone else?” she teases. “Would ya be sad then?”

“Why would he?” you ask. “If he doesn’t wanna marry me, then he definitely doesn’t wanna marry anyone else. There’s no one he likes more than me.”

Kaasan bursts into laughter, shoulders shaking as she tries to cover her mouth, documents forgotten. “Oh, I see,” she says in-between a gasp.

You make a doodle of a flower on your homework. Really, you can’t understand what Kaasan finds so funny, when all you did was tell her the truth.

—

If there’s one thing you know about your childhood friend, it’s that Kita Shinsuke is a creature of habit. Everything he does, he does with the same precision and meticulous care: his chores, his studies, and even the way he organizes his playdates with the air of an office worker planning meetings.

It’s one of the things you like about him, how dedicated he is to everything. Even if the same can’t be said for yourself, as you love spontaneity too much to deny yourself the pleasure of a sudden impulse, you try your best to respect Kita’s routine.

“I’m going to play with Shiori-chan and Jun-kun today, but I’ll come find ya after I’m done,” you tell him, grip loose on your backpack as you bounce down the road. 

“Okay,” Kita says. He’s walking at a steady pace, and you’re careful to match your strides to him, even if you want to run ahead. “How long are ya gonna take?”

“Maybe a few hours? Not sure yet! But I’ll definitely see you before I go home,” you say earnestly. “Because being with ya is a part of my routine!”

There’s a small smile on Kita’s face at your words, as faint and lovely as a pattern of frost on a window. “But ya don’t normally have a routine. Does it even count?”

“Shin-kun, that’s mean,” you whine. “I try to see ya every day!”

“We’re neighbors, and our families are friends,” Kita points out. 

“Still! The effort counts!”

“Well, being with ya is part of my routine, too,” Kita says. “I like seeing you every day.”

You can’t help but skip down the street at that, backpack bouncing on your back at your sudden burst of energy, and Kita watches you, smiling all the while. Not that it’s unusual, though; Kita is always watching like that, everything and everyone.

When you drop Kita off at his doorstep, you give one giant wave at him, promising to stop by as soon as you can, before you turn down the street and head towards the nearby park. 

(Kita likes to watch you from the window whenever you leave, waiting until you’re nothing more than a dot on the horizon before he turns away. This, too, is a ritual). 

Shiori and Jun are already waiting by the time you drop your backpack off at home and rush over to the nearby park, a good fifteen minute run from your home. They live farther inside the neighborhood than you, but attend the same school, so you know them fairly well. Not as well as Kita, but you don’t know anyone else as well as you know Kita.

After a particular explosive game of tag (Shiori was it at first, and she knabbed you by the tail end of your shirt) and kick the can (you’d like to brag you valiantly defended the can quite well, which was a water bottle donated by Jun, as you hunted down Jun and Shiori), Shiori finally turns to you with cheeks rosy from exertion, her mouth opening into a question.

“Kita-kun isn’t here with ya today?” Shiori asks. “I feel like you two are always together.”

“He had ta go home,” you confirm. “And that’s not true! We’re not together right now, aren’t we?”

“Why’re you always with Kita, though?” Jun asks. He’s a little quiet, but there’s something in his tone that you try not to bristle at.

“Whaddya mean? Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you say. “He’s the best.”

“But Kita-kun is kinda… quiet. And he’s always in the corner, just doing his work! He doesn’t really talk to us unless he has ta,” Shiori says, hesitant.

“Kita is boring,” Jun says bluntly. Shiori blushes at his statement, but makes no move to disagree. “He doesn’t seem like a lotta fun. What do ya even talk about with him?”

You pause. Kita, boring? The idea has never occurred to you before. Kita is steady, reliable, responsible, and chides you sometimes like your mom might do, but he’s not boring. Boring is for things like schoolwork, and chores.

“Shin-kun isn’t boring. If you’re mean to Shin-kun, I’m not going to play with ya anymore!” you say firmly. “He’s real fun and super smart. He knows everything, and he can do anything, and he works hard!”

“Aw, don’t be mad!” Shiori says hastily, elbowing Jun, who grumbles. “We didn’t mean anything like that. I guess he’s just a little hard to talk ta sometimes.” 

“If it’s hard to talk to him, why don’t we play together next time?” you suggest. “I’ll make sure ya understand how great Shin-kun is.” 

“Yer bragging about him an awful lot,” Jun says again.

“Shin-kun is Shin-kun,” you repeat firmly, as if that answers the question. And it does, in your mind, but Shiori and Jun glance at each other and say nothing more.

The rest of the time passes well enough, though you are perhaps a little too enthusiastic to win in seeing who can swing the highest and then leap off, because even though you’re the clear champion, you’re left with scrapped knees that Jun winces at. You, Jun, and Shiori wave at each other before heading home, the setting sun its own reminder to keep your promise to Kita.

Still, by the time you meet up with Kita, you’re kicking at the ground, smarting from your friends’ comments you can’t get out of your head. You knock on his door, once, twice, and Kita opens it as if he’s been expecting you. 

It’s hard to hide the expression on your face, but even if you weren’t terrible at concealing your emotions, Kita would probably pick up on it anyways, because he always seems to know how you feel. Not that you could tell him what’s wrong, because you don’t want to repeat those awful comments.

After taking a few seconds to observe you, Kita asks quietly, “Do ya want something sweet? Okaasan brought back some madelines.”

You sniff. “Really?”

“Yeah. Come on,” he says, taking your hand, chubby fingers secure around your own. “Let’s get some together.” He then glances at your knees. “And ya gotta do something about that.”

A few cakes and bandaids applied to your skinned knees courtesy of Kita, and your troubles are forgotten. Even Kita seems to look a little more relaxed in the presence of your smile again, a sunflower turning towards the sun it can’t help but follow.

You really don’t get why people are incapable of understanding a simple fact: Kita isn’t boring at all. In fact, he’s the most wonderful person in the entire world.

—

Elementary school comes and goes, with a graduation full of classmates that cluster around you, begging for one last photo together. Your bouquet wilts from how tight you’ve clutched it as you run from camera to camera, but when Kita sees, he offers you a few pink gerbaras of his own.

(He’s also the first to take a picture with you, your families cooing as they crowd you close together, but he’s never needed to be told to stick close to your side. It’s simply what’s natural, and he frames the photo, keeping it near those dried flowers he still hasn’t let go of).

You have a longer commute in middle school, but it’s one you still share with Kita. It’s a precious period of your day where the two of you walk to school together, side by side. He shows up at the same time at your door like clockwork. You’re usually scrambling with a last-minute breakfast or putting your uniform together, your blazer slipping down your shoulders while Kita looks impeccable as always, not even a thread out of place.

“Ya should have learned to be more careful now,” he chides, even as he reaches out to smooth away the wrinkles with gentle hands, fixing the uneven knot of your tie. “‘s not a good habit to be sloppy.”

“Aw, but Shin-kun,” you say, “Ya always fix it for me!”

“Maybe I should stop.”

“Noooo,” you wail as Kita spins on his heel, collecting both your bag and his in one smooth motion, while you dart after him. “Don’t do that, Shin-kun! Then I’ll be even more of a mess!”

One of the great changes in middle school, besides the advanced curriculum and different uniforms and the evolving roster of classmates, are the inclusion of more involved clubs. 

Of course, you already know what club you want to join, and have known it since the beginning: you want to join the boys volleyball club as a manager. As it is, you’re assistant to the current manager, Yuna, who jumps every time you speak up behind her, taking in your enthusiasm and loud voice with wide eyes.

You’re quick to brag about it to Jun and Shiori, too, who are in a class down the hall from you, popping in for a brief visit during lunch, pulling up a chair to huddle around Shiori’s desk. You have an armful of snacks from the cafeteria, unable to resist spending a few yen on baked goods.

“Always felt like ya should be on the team and Kita should be manager,” Shiori says. “Didn’t realize it’d be the opposite way ‘round.”

“Why’s that?” you ask, curious.

“‘Cause of… um… Just, you know, the sorta impression you and Kita-kun give off is a little different—” 

“It’s ‘cause Kita is smart and yer a meathead,” Jun interrupts bluntly.

“Jun-kun, ya better be ready to back-up what you just said,” you threaten.

“See? Only a meathead would say that,” Jun says. “Aren’t ya faster than Kita, too? And during gym class, ya were always the one ta spike the ball over the most. Just makes sense, right?”

“Well,” you huff, flattered despite yourself at Jun’s acknowledgement of your prowess, “Being on the court is cool, but being a manager is real important too. They do a lot of work behind the scenes to support the players, like helping plan scrimmages and researching opponents. Without ‘em, the players wouldn’t be half as prepared as they are.”

“Managers sound really awesome, then,” Shiori says supportively.

“And,” you add, “They get ta tell people what to do! Shin-kun’s always lecturin’ me about this and that, but if I’m the manager, he’s gotta listen to me for once!”

“There it is,” Jun says. “Knew there was another reason.”

“Jun-kun,” you begin, but a quick glance at the clock has you straightening up, plucking a few wrapped bread from your arms and dropping them onto Shiori’s desk. “We’ll settle this later, but I gotta get back to class. I said I’d spend the rest of lunch with Shin-kun. This is for you two, though!”

(Shiori and Jun both sigh as you burst out of the classroom, Jun propping up his cheek with his hand. It’s obvious from your smile that you’re hoping to see a smile on Kita’s face or hear, at the very least, a quiet thank you. You’ve always been predictable in that way, chasing after your childhood friend with all the clumsy, floppy grace of a lovesick puppy.

“I just don’t get it, not them, or Kita-kun,” Shiori says. “Do ya think they really don’t know how obvious it is that they like him?”

“Ya know how they are. Kita has it rough,” Jun says, and leaves it at that.)

You trundle through middle school, easily collecting friends with your cheer, a parade of people greeting you every morning when you step through the gates. Kita is just behind, by your side as steadily as the way shadow follows light. 

Kita is liked well-enough, you think, but people always seem to have difficulty approaching him. Maybe it’s his mature demeanor, or his steady gaze they can’t meet, as luminous as snowfall on a winter night, quiet and all-consuming. Or maybe it’s the way he’s consistently top of the class, pulling perfect hundreds, and the principled student all the teachers uphold as the model everyone should strive to emulate. 

“If only you could be more like Kita Shinsuke…” is a phrase troublemakers hear in their nightmares.

You maintain decent grades, too, but you still badger Kita for his notes, if only because he keeps such meticulous, detailed ones, and his handwriting is prettier than yours with how graceful it looks, like the work of a professional calligrapher. He beats you out easily in class rankings, much to your chagrin.

The real highlight of your day is volleyball practice after school, to the point your friends in class offer to take over clean-up duty from you so you can get to the gym early. Your duties mostly consist of helping keep track of scores during games, managing player statistics, and refilling and passing out water and towels. 

At times, you’ll help Yuna and the coach contact other schools for practice matches. Your role is mostly to observe how Yuna handles being manager, in preparation for when she graduates and you take on the role yourself.

That leaves a lot of time where you can stop to watch Kita. If he’s watching everyone else, who’s going to watch him? It might as well be you, his childhood friend, and it’s a habit you’ve maintained since you were children. Besides, it’s easy for your eyes to follow Kita, and you seek him out in every room before you’re even aware of what you’re doing.

Kita is diligent and steadfast, going through every drill without a word that the other students complain constantly about. He never takes shortcuts, and always does what’s required of him. He even stays after to help collect the balls and mop the gym with you.

You’re proud of him. There’s no way you wouldn’t be, but when two other first-years are selected as regulars for the team, you can’t help but feel slighted on his behalf. During games, sometimes you’ll end up side-by-side, watching rallies, though Kita always scolds you if you talk too much and end up distracting the benched players.

“Don’t ya wanna be on court, Shin-kun?” you ask, hands behind your back. Right now, your team is hosting a scrimmage with a local middle school, and one of your wing spikers pulls a sharp cut shot that leaves everyone cheering.

“Everyone wants ta be on court, but only the players who’ve proven they deserve to be there can stand on it,” Kita says. “I only do what I’m supposed to, and if I do it well, then that’s when I deserve ta be on court. That’s the proper way to go about it.”

“If that’s the case, then yer definitely gonna be a starting member one day,” you say. “Because I see ya, Shin-kun. Ya work hard, and you’re careful with everything that ya do. You never skip practice, or take shortcuts during laps, and you always do all your drills until ya can do the motions in your sleep! You’re gonna earn yer place there, I know it!”

Yuna calls your name and you scamper off before he can respond. 

(Kita breathes in. Breathes out. Like Obaasan told him, so long ago: “The gods are always watching.” Someone will always notice. Someone will always see him, but she never said that  when they did, there would be a miniature sun in his chest, overflowing gold that he can’t keep contained).

—

Middle school passes with its own routine, one that you settle into. Kita and you walk to school together in the mornings, rain or shine, eat lunch in his classroom and share parts of your bento with each other (he’s always putting vegetables on your plate), and then you attend volleyball practice, where you’ll mop the floors and wipe down the balls with Kita’s help and then walk home together. Kita will drop you off on your doorstep, and then head off to his own.

There’s little deviation to your routine, at least until your second year during lunchtime, when a boy approaches you when you’re halfway through your anpan. You’ve pulled up a chair right across from Kita, your bento and notebooks scattered across his desk. Though you’re in different classes this year, you still make an effort to bother him daily, and eating lunch together is one of your rituals.

“Can I talk with you?” he says. You try to place where you’ve seen him before; maybe in the class across from yours?

You’re still chewing and covering your mouth with your hand, trying frantically to swallow before responding. “Yes? Did ya need me for something?”

“There’s something I want to tell you. In private,” he emphasizes, flicking a glance at Kita.

“Sure,” you say. “But lunch is almost over, so we should hurry. I’ll be back, Shin-kun!” you add over your shoulder. 

Kita only nods, watching you scamper off without a thought in the world as to what your classmate could want now. Maybe about homework? A shared classmate?

(Kita’s hands are steady, even as he grips his chopsticks tight enough that his knuckles turn white. A lot of people have been confessing to you lately, but it’s not surprising, not with how well-liked you are. Not that you ever seem to realize what’s happening, how the easy, careless charm of your smile, the way you always face the person you’re talking to like they’re the only ones in the world, is dangerous).

The boy guides you down hallways and stairwells until you’re in the courtyard, standing in a little alcove that shields you from views of most of the windows. Including, you think, the gaze of your own classroom’s.

Clouds swirl overhead, grey and heavy, a light breeze stirring the grass. Is it going to rain soon? You glance up, just as the boy in front of you wrings his hands and takes several deep inhales.

“I wanted ta say… I’ve noticed ya from the very start of orientation! Yer always so bright and cheerful, and I couldn’t stop thinking about you since then. When we pass by in the halls, I always look at ya and…!” his voice raises in a shout. “And I wanted to say I like you. Please go out with me!”

Your mouth works before your mind does, but even then, all you can say is a strangled little “Oh… erm?” You remember his name now, Eiji, but you’re still too startled by his sudden words, all your thoughts scattering like birds. This has happened a few times now, but it still takes you by surprise every time. You? Liked? It’s strange to think that people think of you in such a way, that they could hold such expectations for you, when you’re just going about your day.

He’s still staring at you expectantly, and it’d be rude to keep him waiting any longer. Your tongue is still glued to your mouth, but you manage to unstick it to croak out, “I’m sorry. I appreciate your feelings, but I can’t return them.”

Eiji hangs his head. “I figured. I wanted to let ya know, anyways, but ya already have Kita-san, right?”

“Huh?” you squeak.

“Huh?” He tilts his head. “Ya and Kita-san. Aren’t ya dating? Everyone says you are.”

“That’s not—we’re just childhood friends,” you say hastily. “I mean. It’s not as if I don’t like him, but—we aren’t—I mean, I think—he’s just my friend.”

Huh? Wait a moment. What do you feel about Kita, then? All your feelings for him have always been rolled into one glowing ball that you’ve termed “like,” but people like each other in different ways. Is the way you like Kita different from how you like Jun and Shiori, or your own parents? What does “liking” someone even mean, then?

Eiji must see the confusion mar your face because he sighs. “‘s all right. Thank ya for yer time. But I hope ya and Kita-san can work out whatever it is you have. You don’t want ta be leading him on, or anything.”

Eiji heads in first, ducking his head and running away as you stand in the courtyard for a moment longer, eyebrows furrowed. A drop of something cold splashes on your head. It’s raining, the clouds sending out a shy drizzle as a warning, and so you hurry inside, distracted for the rest of lunch.

After school, you’re standing by your shoe locker glumly. The rain has transformed into a monstrous downpour, causing squawking students to brave the weather with only their bags over their heads, or hang under dripping eaves as the world is washed clean.

You’re one of the people who didn’t bring an umbrella, and so you’re stuck contemplating your options. You can run out and hope to make it home, or stay behind until the rain clears a little. Either way, you’re most likely going to be soaked, and a trek in soggy loafers is not on your list of enjoyable post-school activities. 

“Did ya forget your umbrella?”

It’s Kita, and though he’s a respectful distance away from you, as he always is, you jump as if he’s whispered right into your ear.

“Yes!” you say, with more force than necessary.

“Ya should have checked the weather report,” Kita says plainly. He has a clear plastic umbrella in his right hand.

“I shoulda…” you say morosely. Eiji’s earlier comments are still swirling around your head, and you let out a long sigh. Are you hurting Kita, somehow? At least the rain is as miserable as your mood.

You expect more admonishments or another remark about your lack of preparation, but Kita only unfurls his umbrella and says, “We can share.”

The umbrella is small enough that your shoulders are pressed side by side, and you can feel, distinctly, the heat from his body. Kita doesn’t run hot, and he’s always at a consistent, mild temperature. His hands are always cold, though, and you like to rub his fingers with your own until they warm up. You’re hyper-aware of his body now, and how much of it you know. Stupid Eiji.

“What did that guy want from ya?” Kita asks.

“Just confessin’,” you grumble. “But I wasn’t interested. I don’t know why people are so caught up in romance. Doesn’t make any sense. Relationships? Dating? Marriage? ‘S all ridiculous.”

“I see,” Kita says simply. “Did he say something to ya?” 

“Just…” You let out another sigh. “I don’t know, Shin-kun. Am I hurting ya? Do ya feel like I’m leading you on? If I’m hurtin’ ya, you gotta let me know.”

“Yer not hurting me,” he says. “Yer my oldest and closest friend, and you’ve never done anything wrong. Ya don’t gotta listen to people like that; they don’t think before they speak, or consider how their words affect others. They just say what they want, so what they say doesn’t matter one bit as long as you know what you believe in and what’s true ta you.”

“Aw, Shin-kun!” You fight the urge to fling your arms around his neck, and settle for slapping his back empathetically as Kita lets out a quiet little “oomph” with each strike. “Yer right!”

Eiji’s comments don’t matter, you decide. Your relationship with Kita is no one’s business other than your own, and people can think whatever they want. It doesn’t really matter if you aren’t sure of the exact nature of your own emotions; you like Kita, no matter what it means, and that’s all that matters. 

(Kita has heard what other people whisper in the hallways. You’ve never asked him how he views your relationship, but that’s all right. You don’t need to. What he feels is something he has nurtured for years. Step by step. Day by day. Ritual by ritual).

—

It’s the last volleyball match of your middle school careers. Kita has never played a game, never been on the starting line-up, but still people flock to him for advice or for his analysis on the other team’s plays. He’s often sitting with you on the bench, watching, quietly exchanging notes with you.

He’s your assistant, you like to joke, though you think you feel more annoyed than Kita over the fact he’s never been chosen. Even though he practices more consistently than anyone else. Even though everyone relies on him. He’s not flashy, sure, but he’s steady, and that’s more important than anything in a game where even the best-laid strategy can go awry.

“Are you Kita Shinsuke?” 

You spin around, and through the half-open gym doors, you see a man dressed in a track suit, with glasses and a keen smile. He’s not immediately recognizable as one of the other middle school coaches. But he still speaks with a surety that makes you wrack your brains, regardless, trying to place him. It’d be awful to have met him and forgotten his name.

Kita looks up from his clipboard, gaze tranquil and steady. “Yes.”

“Have you thought about what high school you’d like to attend? What volleyball programs are you interested in?”

(Someone is always watching. Someone will notice).

And that’s how you and Kita end up at Inarizaki, a bus ride and fifteen minute walk away from your neighborhood.

—

You say goodbye to middle school in a deluge of tearful farewells and congratulatory wishes to classmates who’re attending different high schools. You’re encircled by admirers, take so many pictures your mouth starts hurting from how often you’ve had to smile. You’re given flowers, last-minute confessions, invitations to lunch and dinner and dates you have to refuse. 

You’re just not interested, you explain. You don’t have the time for such things, but you appreciate their feelings regardless.

Jun and Shiori are attending a different high school, so you’re sure to squeeze them extra hard during graduation, handing them flowers from your own bouquets, yellow roses with stems stripped of thorns.

“Let’s still hang out,” you say. “We’re always going ta be friends! Don’t be afraid to say hi!”

“I’ll miss ya,” Shiori says sincerely. “I’ll stop by when I can, I promise!”

“Don’t forget to invite me to yer wedding in the future,” Jun adds.

“Wedding? We’re too young ta get married! I’m not even thinking about that right now,” you say. “Jun-kun yer so weird.”

He only shrugs. Really, what an odd thing to say, though it does give you a disconcerting feeling that you’ve forgotten something, some hazy, half-remembered flashback to flower crowns and a distant spring day. But it can’t be too important or you’d have remembered, so you tackle Jun and Shiori in another hug instead.

Your favorite picture from graduation, though, is the one you take with Kita, an electric smile on your face, your arm looped around his, your bodies leaning towards each other like flowers sheltering in a storm. When you line it up with your elementary school graduation picture, it feels like a perfect set, a history of your life so far with Kita.

Outside of your new uniform, high school proceeds much the same as middle school did. You and Kita have a routine, the precious rituals you’ve built over a lifetime of knowing each other, and those aren’t things that collapse so easily.

In the morning, Kita shows up at your door, albeit a little earlier than he did in middle school, smoothing down your rumpled tie without too much complaint. Kita always gives you the seat on the bus, standing in front of you, your knees knocking together when the bus lurches around a corner. He always asks if you’ve eaten, and if you’ve run out the door without any food, he pulls out packaged bread that you much on.

You share your first year class together, which means you only need to drag your chair to Kita’s desk and place your bento in your lap to see him. You flick crumpled-up notes at him, but he only reads them, smoothes them out, and places them within his notebook, sending you no reply in return. You chatter about your day at every opportunity, about the difficulties you face in lessons or the petty squabble between new friends that you’ve made. 

In the afternoon, you and Kita head to the gym after school. You’ve applied to be manager of the Inarizaki volleyball team, though it seems plenty of other students in your grade have the same idea. You hear it’s a popular one to apply for but near impossible to get the position, if only because so many people want to join just to get close to the boys on the team. Which is ridiculous, because the boys on the team are just like the boys anywhere else: a little sweaty, a little rude, and wholly ordinary.

Kita might be the exception to that, but that’s because he’s Kita. Even when he sweats, he smells nice, and he’s always polite, and he’s the most wonderful person ever. It’d be hard for any other boy to beat that, really.

Suffice to say, you manage to beat out the other candidates and snag the spot. Much like in middle school, Kita is on the bench, not having made the starting lineup again, and you’re lugging around water bottles and tracking scores in practice games.

After school, you and Kita head home together, side by side. You match his slow, steady pace, and sometimes if the weather is nice, you’ll take a longer route home, just to see the scenery. Kita walks you to your door, and you wait in the doorway to see him enter his own before you wave goodbye for a final time. 

The one thing that’s different about high school, though, is the confessions. Not to you, though you still get your fair share of them and have managed to tune them out as mild irritations in your day, but to Kita.

The first is a girl from the class across from you, clutching at the edges of her skirt during lunch. She went to your middle school, you think, but you were always in different classes and didn’t share any friends. 

“Kita-san,” she says shyly, in a tone so full of longing it makes you want to take Kita’s hand and pull him away in the other direction, “Can I talk to you in private?”

Your classmates snicker around you as Kita calmly stands and says, “Okay.”

You stare out the window, unable to relax, bouncing your leg so nervously that the entire desk shakes. More and more catastrophic scenarios arise in your mind—of Kita accepting her confession, of distancing himself from you, of deciding to move away to another country with this girl—before Kita comes back and says, simply, “She asked me out and I turned her down.” 

Then there’s a second-year, two weeks later, who even brought food with him as if a love confession was a bribe. And then someone from your own class, who Kita shared his notes with, shouting so loud you’re pretty sure the kids from the class next door overheard. The confessions pile up, little by little, irritating and spaced far apart enough that each new one feels like a bucket of ice water thrown at your head, even though you’d hoped it wouldn’t happen again.

Because of course people would like Kita. He’s wonderful, and kind, and smart, and the best person in the entire world. But no one has ever confessed to him before, or shown much interest in him, romantic interest, until high school. 

The thought of Kita, your best friend, spending more time with someone else or just liking someone more than you makes you feel sour. Sure, you don’t like the idea of him with a partner, but you also can’t stand the idea that your relationship will deteriorate because he chooses to prioritize someone else in his life. He’s always been by your side, and you’ve always been by his. That’s not a position you ever want to relinquish.

The last straw is a pretty third year who corners Kita after practice and clean-up, leaving you behind to wait near the gym doors, glowering at the rocks near your shoes, as if they’re the world’s worst criminals.

“Let’s go home,” Kita says, when he returns. The third year is noticeably absent from his side, and he looks as unruffled as ever.

“What did she want?” you say, not moving, twisting your hands together.

“She wanted to say that she likes me. And wanted ta know if I was free to go to a cafe with her this week.”

“Oh. What did ya say?”

“I told her no,” he says plainly. “Volleyball practice takes up most of my time after school.”

“She was pretty,” you grumble. “And real nice. You really said no?”

“I’m not interested in a relationship with her,” he says. 

“There’s been a lot of people who’ve been asking after ya these days, Shin-kun,” you press. “You really aren’t annoyed by it?”

“It’s not annoying because it’d be wrong of me to treat those peoples’ feelings carelessly. It takes courage ta tell someone you like them, and I want to respect that courage and their feelings, even if I don’t feel the same.”

Good old Kita, thoughtful as always. But you still feel petty, and small, and wrap your arms around yourself. How is it that he can look favorably upon these others, when all you do is feel rotten? He could stand to be less honorable, let them know that he isn’t available because—because what?

You shake your head, as if to clear yourself of your confusing thoughts. You try to pin a smile on your face, but it’s small, tight. “Okay. I get it. Let’s just go home, then. Before someone else tries to get ya.”

Kita doesn’t say anything for a while. He seems to be weighing his words in his mind, watching you with the same intensity he devotes to everything, and you hunch your shoulders, as if doing so will help you escape his scrutiny. Finally, he says, “Okkasan got some madeleines on sale last week. The kind ya like.”

“Ya can’t bribe me with cakes, Shin-kun! I’m not a kid anymore.”

“ Even if it’s yer favorite flavor?” he says. 

“That’s not…” you say, pressing your lips together. “Well…”

“Ya can have as much as ya want.”

“... Fine,” you grumble.

“Not too much, though. It’ll spoil yer dinner.”

“Shin-kun!”

You swear you see him smile then, a brief flash like the glint of sunlight on water, but his face relaxes, falling back into its usual neutral expression.

(Kita’s just glad you’re the same as you always are. He’s had a lot more practice than you, after all, to exercise patience in the face of unwanted confessions directed towards someone he likes, even if you look awfully cute when you’re jealous).

—

Inarizaki High, you’ve come to learn, is a real powerhouse for volleyball, a school that regularly makes appearances at nationals, so practices are more intense than in middle school. Inarizaki also has its own marching band that comes to games, and the money to buy all its members, starting lineup or not, the same brand of athletic sneakers. And so there’s a certain pressure that comes with being manager and having to oversee a gaggle of rowdy teenage boys and wrangle them into practice and drills. 

Everyone who makes it to the starting line-up, you’ve come to learn, is a bit of a personality. There’s Aran, who’s funny and reliable as their ace, and Omi, who reminds you of your grandmother, steady and stern. And, of course, there’s the upcoming batch of first years.

“Are ya and Kita-san dating?”

The question comes from one of your boldest newcomers, the starting setter, who has bleached blond hair and unrelenting cockiness in his own skills. The team is in the middle of serving drills, but he’s evidently taking a break from his current set, because he’s hounding you as you refill the water bottles, one by one.

“We’re not,” you say.

Atsumu curses under his breath. In the distance, you can see Osamu raise his eyebrows and Suna snicker. Is this a bet of some kind? But you’re used to these sorts of inquiries from middle school, the assumptions of everyone else.

You know what you and Kita are to each other. You’re best friends from childhood and… well, it’s better not to think about it too much.

“Did ya ever date him?” Atsumu presses. “Like in the past? Even just a little?”

“Hm? Not at all,” you say. “Shin-kun’s my best friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids.”

“Manangerrrr,” Atsumu groans, “Yer killing me here. I got my lunch riding on this. Yer really not together? Then why’re ya always hanging off each other?”

“We don’t hang off of each other,” you protest.

“Ya do! And Kita-san always gets this soft look on his face when he’s with ya, like–”

“Atsumu. Did ya finish your serving drills?” Kita cuts in, hovering somewhere over your shoulder, voice cold and direct. He must have noticed Atsumu’s absence on the court.

Atsumu visibly straightens under the force of Kita’s stare. As someone who’s been subjected to that cold stare for a majority of your life, you can’t help but pity Atsumu, who’s not used to it at all. “Er… ya see, Kita-san, I was just—”

“If you’re not finished, then why are you here?”

And with that, Atsumu trudges off back to Suna and Osamu, who both seem to be holding back laughter at Atsumu’s expression. 

“Was he bothering ya?” Kita asks. 

“Not really,” you say. “But I think the first years were bettin’ on whenever we’re together. Isn’t it a little silly? I don’t know why everyone assumes that.”

Kita gives a soft hum of acknowledgment, tucking a stray curl of hair behind your ear. “There’s no reason ta mind them. They should be focusin’ on practice, anyways.”

“Right, right,” you say. “Oh, Shin-kun. I just refilled the water bottles.” You pluck one off of the bench and hand it to him. “Have some. You’ve been running around so much, and ya gotta make sure yer staying hydrated!”

(There are few team dynamics that Suna and the others are quick to pick up on. For example, you’re popular on the team for your cheer and energy, but Kita is known for his cold perfectionism. No flaws, always diligent, never a single hair out of place.

Sometimes, it makes them all just a little curious to see where he trips up, because surely, someone like Kita must have one weakness, right? Whether it’s a silly habit, a dislike, or another  person.

“I really thought they were datin’,” Atsumu groans. 

“Too bad,” Osamu says unrepentantly. “Ya owe me yer lunch for that. I told you they weren’t.”

“Makes no sense! Didja see how he looks at them? And how they always dote on him?”

“That’s ya get for assumin’, ya scrub.”

“Yer the scrub!”

As the twins dissolve into another spate of bickering, Suna flicks a glance at you and Kita, the way he leans close to you, intent on catching every word, because he never gives you anything less than his full attention, no matter the circumstance. 

When Kita glares at the three of them, though, the first years all jump and scramble to their feet, guiltily slinking towards the court to practice their next round of serves. 

Troublesome. Just because Suna can pinpoint his weakness, doesn’t mean he can do anything with it).

—

It’s not until your third year that Kita is made captain, and he steps onto court for the first time, when Inarizaki down six points in a set during an Interhigh game. He’s subbed in for Aran, who rests on the bench alongside you and the coach, towel around his neck, hands folded in his lap as he intently watches the game resume.

“Are ya feeling okay?” you ask Aran, handing him a water bottle. “That was an intense rally.”

“I thought my hands were going to fall off,” Aran says, groaning. “But it’s a nice break. Can’t believe Atsumu kept settin’ on first touch.”

“He just trusts ya to always get the ball,” you say. “And he wants to make up for the point gap real bad.”

“Maybe he trusts me too much,” Aran grumbles.

Though you’re fairly friendly to everyone on the team, especially the third years, Aran is one of the people you’re most close to. It helps that he’s also friends with Kita and you’re in his class this year, so you gravitate towards his desk to trade silly jokes and steal pieces of his bento. Even though he groans, he lets you get away with it, and you’re sure to give him something from your own bento in return.

“Go Shin-kun,” you whisper under your breath, pumping your fist as he crouches and digs the ball with one perfect, fluid motion. “Ya got this!”

“Thought you’d be cheerin’ louder than that,” Aran says.“Haven’t ya been wanting him to be on court since our first year here?”

“I don’t want to distract him,” you say. “It’s his first time in a real match! Well, not that Shin-kun would get distracted by something like cheering, anyways.”

“First time in a match?”

“Yeah. Surprised no one told ya yet,” you say, eyes glued to Kita’s figure. He’s steady, reliable, and already the other players on court are relaxing their bodies, their focus sharpening. He’s lecturing them, you imagine, pointing out all the ways in which they’ve been overcompensating or slacking. “Never made it to the court in middle school. I knew he would, eventually. Shin-kun’s good, even if he doesn’t think so because he’s not flashy. But being diligent and doing things so consistently every time is real hard, and so that’s its own skill.”

“You’re… really paying attention to him, huh?” Aran says.

“Because he’s Shin-kun,” you say. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“You’re up again, Aran,” Coach Kurosu calls. “Take yer number. We’re gonna put ya back in after this rotation. Think the team’s back on its feet, and Kita’s about to rotate to the front row.”

“Good luck, Aran-kun. I want ya to score at least ten points in a row!” you say, holding out your hands as he slaps them in a double high five.

“Yer asking for too much,” he groans, picking up the plastic sign with the number four emblazoned on it, raising it as he stands. 

The whistle blows. Kita returns to you and the coach, covered in a light sheen of sweat, breathing harder than normal. Other than that, he looks calm, cool, as if this isn’t the first match in his high school career.

“How was it, Shin-kun?” you ask, handing him a water bottle. “Did ya have fun on court?”

“What I did on court was simply the product of all my practice,” he says. “No more, no less. But…”

“But?” you prod.

“I enjoyed it,” he says simply.

“Good! I told ya you would be out there one day! Next time yer out there, I hope you have even more fun, because we’re gonna go far! Take first place at nationals, even!” 

You raise your hands in the same gesture you just did for Aran, both hands splayed out for a high five. Kita observes the movement, sets down his water bottle, and quietly, carefully, slaps your hands in celebration.

—

Your dreams at nationals end after three sets during your first game there. You’re walking off the court, away from whatever promises you’ve made, a stage you can only see for this one final time. The echo of your shoes on the hardwood, the parade of volleyball players chasing the same desire, the dome so high and so impossibly large you have to squint to make out the ceiling.

Inarizaki High stays until the end of the day, when the sea of crowds trickle into a stream of stragglers and most stalls close, the window to buy souvenirs shrinking. You want to stay until the last possible second but then the entire team is packing their bags, and the Miya twins catch you while you check for the location of all the players. 

“Sorry, manager,” Atsumu whispers. He looks deflated, properly chagrined for once, none of the usual arrogance in his stance or words. “We were supposed ta show you the first place trophy.”

“It’s yer last year,” Osamu says simply. 

“Then make sure you make it next year,” you say, clapping both of them on the back so hard that they jump. “I’ll be watching ya, okay? So don’t disappoint me! I wanna see ya take Inarizaki as far as it can go, and then beyond!”

“I promise,” Osamu says. There’s none of his usual relaxed, lazy drawl now, just a fervent honesty.

“Make sure ya come watch!” Atsumu says.

The last six years of your life, spent chasing after volleyballs and planning scrimmages, tracking player stats and filling water bottles, is over. You’ll no longer have to dedicate your afternoons to a gymnasium. You’ve managed to find a replacement, a kind first year named Ichika, so the team will be in good hands.

In the lobby, you run into Aran, who’s watching one of the last games of the day on a television monitor mounted on the wall.

“‘S disappointing, but I’m still gonna do volleyball after this,” Aran says quietly. “I’m thinkin’ about going pro.”

“Then ya better not forget me when yer pro, Aran-kun. I want your autograph. Maybe I can sell it for a lot of money,” you cheer.

“Don’t try one of yer get rich quick schemes with me,” he says, but he still slaps your hands when you hold them out in a double high five.

“You were good on the court,” you say. “So I know you can make it. It was a good game. A real good game, the most excitin’ one I’ve ever seen so far, and ya had a lot of good spikes.”

“Did ya have to say that now?” Aran says groaning, turning away, and you pretend not to notice as he scrubs at his eyes.

On the bus ride home the next morning, you and Kita sit at the front two seats. The bus ride home is quiet; everyone must be exhausted, because when you look back, all you can see are closed eyes and slumped bodies. Atsumu has an arm flung over Osamu, whose eyebrows are drawn in irritation. Suna huddles in a corner by himself. Gin’s mouth is wide open while Omi’s arms are crossed as he leans back next to him. Akagi is smushed against a window, and Aran’s head jostles with every turn of the bus.

But Kita is wide awake, watching the scenery flash past outside. Your hands rest lightly next to each other on the bus seat, just a centimeter of distance. It’s a strange thing to be aware of, but all you can think about is how his fingers must be cold, and you have to resist the urge to pick them up and rub them, curling up all your desire to touch him into your clenched fists.

“Yer not going to keep up with volleyball, right, Shin-kun?” you whisper. “This is yer last season.”

“That’s right,” he says. “But yer not either, are ya?”

“It was a good six years. But there are other things I want ta do. I’m gonna miss this, though.”

“I’m never gonna forget it. I wanted to stay on court a little longer,” he murmurs, voice dropping low as if his words are for your ears alone even though everyone else is asleep, “And show off the team, and everyone’s hard work.”

“I wanted everyone ta place first. Show all of Japan who we are,” you groan. “‘Cause everyone was good enough to make it! We got out too soon. But the other team was way too good too. Can’t believe we never heard of ‘em before this year.”

“But even if we can’t make it to first place, it wasn’t a bad experience. Built a lot of memories, and a lot of muscle,” Kita says. “I know the team always says we don’t need memories, but all our past actions make up who we are now. The me in the past that practiced and ate well and studied hard and got the me of today where I am now.”

You turn over his words. It’s true, after all. Everything you’ve built becomes a foundation for who you are now, and everything you want to build in the future.

“That’s just like ya to say! But ya know, I kinda like our motto. We don’t need ta worry about the past and the things we can’t change. We can only focus on now, and what we’re gonna do in the future. Because who knows what’s gonna happen tomorrow. ‘S exciting,” you say. “And Shin-kun?”

“Hm?”

“Thank you for all yer hard work all these years,” you say sincerely. “I’m glad ya got to stand on court one more time, and that all of Japan could see just how awesome ya are! I wanted to show off and yell, ‘see? Isn’t my childhood friend the coolest?’”

Kita blinks, once, twice, and you wonder if you’ve caught him off-guard for once because he looks like a startled fox, fur bristling. There’s a faint pink tinge to his cheeks, but he only says, “But we wouldn’t get half as far without ya as support. If I looked cool, it’s only because ya and the others worked so hard to get us where we were. ‘S not just my effort alone. Ya were the one doing research and preparin’ all the supplies, so thank you for all of your hard work as manager.” 

“Aw, Shin-kun,” you say, and this time, your hand reaches across the divide, forefinger loping around his own. Just this much should be okay, shouldn’t it? Kita has always had cool skin, but today, it burns with an intense heat that seeps into your skin. Or are you mistaking your own body heat for his? But isn’t it all the same warmth at the end of the day, because you’re always by his side? “I know all that! Ya should take the compliment. Ya don’t gotta find a reason for everything all the time.”

Kita laughs softly, a sound as gentle as the swirl of snow across a courtyard. “‘S habit. It’s important ta think through everything, and do it carefully and slowly. Especially for the important things. Ya don’t want to rush through those, even if no one notices.” His finger squeezes around yours. “I’m looking forward to seein’ what tomorrow looks like, after all that hard work.”

“Tomorrow will be good,” you say confidently, “‘Cause we built the foundation for it today. And ya don’t need to worry, Shin-kun. Even if yer watching everyone else, I’ll be watching ya, and I’ll see all the effort you put in.”

“I know ya will,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice, the fondness, how it colors all of his words, the way it always has.

—

March arrives in a froth of cherry blossoms and pink petals that get caught in your hair, long-winded speeches during the graduation ceremony as you bounce in your seat, your juniors crowding around you with a bouquet of flowers they pooled their allowances together to buy. The flowers are vibrant reds and pinks and yellows, as vivid as the team you’re leaving behind.

“We’re going to miss you, manager,” Atsumu says. His eyes are rimmed in red.

“He cried thinkin’ about you and the other third years leavin’,” Osamu says bluntly. “Like a baby.”

“And Samu couldn’t even sleep ‘cause today was the last day he could see ya all,” Atsumu responds nastily. “Made him all worried.”

“I’ll send you the photos later,” Suna whispers, discreetly aiming his phone at the bickering twins, who look like they’re one step away from escalating it into a physical altercation.

“Thanks, Suna-kun,” you whisper in return, shifting the flowers to rest in the crook of one arm. “Take care of yourself, okay? Don’t slack too much.”

Suna hums noncommittally, eyes sliding away from you, but Ginjima pats his chest, standing straight.

“I’ll watch out for Suna,” he says, voice already strained with restrained tears. “Don’t worry, manager! I’ll work hard, so ya won’t have anything to worry about.”

“Thank you, Gin-kun,” you say. “But watch out for yourself, too!”

With graduation comes a last minute wave of tearful confessions, of promises to stay together, and a request for buttons. You navigate skillfully around an obstacle course of classmates clamboring for your second button or any buttons at all, turn down a wave of confessions, and skirt around anyone who seems like they’re eying you.

Is Kita getting the same influx of confessions? You really hope not. It takes you a few seconds to spot Kita hanging back from the mingling crowds, at a careful distance. For a moment, all you can do is stare. He looks pretty framed against the trees, like an ephemeral spirit watching over humanity, forever separated. But unlike a spirit, you don’t want him to fade away to a place where you can’t be with him.

“Shin-kun!” you say, running up to him. You flick a quick glance at his jacket; all his buttons are still there. “There you are!”

Kita reaches a hand to your head, brushing away a shower of petals that must have settled into your hair in your journey to find him. “Did ya talk to the second years? They were lookin’ for ya.”

“Just finished!” you announce, waving your flowers in front of him like a baton. “They gave me these. Aren’t they pretty?”

“They really like ya,” he says. 

“Well, they like you a lot too! Are ya gonna give me something, Shin-kun? Since it’s our high school graduation?” you joke.

Kita regards you for a long moment. Then, his nimble fingers reach towards his uniform blazer, tugging out the second button, before he holds it out to you, button lying flat on his palm. “This is for you.”

“Shin-kun?” you say. Kita, who has never looked anything less than perfect, who keeps spare buttons in his bag in case he loses one and has to sew it back on, who never does anything unnecessary, is handing you a button. His second button, the one he ripped out of his jacket.

“It’s customary to do something like this,” he says. “Ain’t it?”

“It is, but ya know, giving the button… it’s like…” 

“You don’t want it?”

You quickly snatch the button from his hands, your fingers grazing against his palm, and it feels like even that momentary touch has burned you, like you’re marked by him in a way no one else can ever do. “I didn’t say that! I’m glad ya didn’t give it to anyone else, but…”

“Ya didn’t give yers to anyone else, either,” he says quietly. “That’s good.”

“I didn’t want ta,” you stammer. It’s Kita. Kita, your best friend and childhood friend. The one you hold near and dear to your heart, who’s always gone along with your whims. But right now, it feels like he’s one leading you along.

You like him. Of course you like him. But the shape of his feelings are different from what you expected, or thought they would ever be. And what are your feelings? How do you feel about Kita? Kita, who you adore, who you like, who is the most important person in the world to you?

“So there’s no one ya want to give it to?” Kita asks.

You open your mouth, and you don’t know what you’re going to say, because Kita looks so serious, and he’s always serious, but today, he has an intensity that he only gets when he’s focused, when he really cares about what he’s doing, and you’ve never felt more flustered to be on the receiving end of such a penetrating stare—

“Kita! Manager!” Akagi calls, waving his arms. “There ya are!”

Startled, you whirl around, waving back to Akagi, who’s running towards you, and Omi and Aran, who stand a little ways back. 

“Let’s go, Shin-kun. The others are calling for us!” You scurry off, your entire body fever-hot. For now, at least, you’ve been granted another reprieve from having to think about your feelings.

(“I told him not to interrupt ‘em,” Aran says, groaning, watching as you high five Akagi, Kita trailing just a bit behind. “Did ya see how Kita looked?”

“He looked fine to me,” Omi replies. 

“Are ya kidding?” Aran says. Once again, he has to wonder if he’s the only sane one on the team, a thought he’s had many, many times before.

It’s obvious that Kita cares about you in a different way than he does for the others, a special regard that you yourself seem oblivious to, whether that’s purposeful or not.

Kita is perfectly polite, kind, and meticulous, the sort of boy that parents absolutely adore. Aran would struggle to come up with a single bad word to say about him, not that he wants to. They’re friends. They’ve spent three years together. But there’s something about the way he looks at you, something that most people wouldn’t pick up on.

It’s just…

“Foxes mate for life,” he mutters, the fact springing into mind unbidden, from a nature documentary or class, he isn’t sure.

“Did ya say something, Aran?” Omi asks.

“‘S nothing. Let’s join them.”

It’s just a little possessive).

—

You squint up at the house in front of you, shading your eyes with your hand. It’s been a few years since you’ve visited Kita Yumie’s home, but it looks just as it did in your childhood: clean, small, well-maintained, curtains pulled back and windows open to let in a breeze, with a porch that you just want to sit on with a pot of tea.

The spring air is warm, inviting, as if winter had never shown its face and it’s always been such pleasant weather. Your suitcase rattles behind you as you pull it along the dirt road and up the house steps, knocking on the door.

It’s been a year since you’ve graduated college, and five years since you left high school. In the time since, you’ve landed a job at a wedding planning company, and you haven’t had time to rest. There’s always a last minute disaster to handle, an argument between the couple, or a mistake in booking. And just when you’re done smoothing out one problem, there’s always two more to handle, and a new wave of clients at your door.

But you’ve always wanted to work in hospitality, to connect with others, and the look of joy on your clients’ face when the wedding comes together gives you a satisfaction like nothing else. There’s something about connecting people, of watching people who want to spend their lives by each other’s side, that makes you feel as giddy as if you’re the one getting married.

You keep in touch with your classmates and the volleyball team members you once coached, though it’s still hard to wrap your head around the fact you know three professional volleyball players now. Osamu has a habit of giving you free onigiri whenever you stop by his shop, and Shiori and Jun still text you sporadically with updates on their lives.

But it’s Kita who you make an effort to call and text everyday. Even if you don’t live next to each other anymore, hearing from him is always a part of your daily ritual. He’s your best friend, and the two of you have only seen each other in person at family get-togethers during the holidays, or when you try to take a day off to see him on his birthday. It’s a little lonely to know he’s no longer just a few doors down, that if you looked out the window, you wouldn’t see him walking by.

Neither of you talk about high school graduation. You don’t bring it up, and neither does Kita, and your relationship is virtually unchanged. Even though you still keep his button, turning it over in your hands when you try to think about what you want. Even though you know both you and Kita are waiting for something. Even though you’re no longer a child and it’s been five years, and you’re just taking advantage of his kindness, because he always, always spoils you.

But there’s never been a good time to broach the subject, not with classes and now work, and you wonder if it’s too late now. If you imagined the whole thing, if you were wrong, if this is finally the one line you’ve crossed.

“Yer here,” Kita says, opening the door. “And yer early.”

“Hi, Shin-kun! I’m back!” you say, smiling. “The plane landed at the airport ahead of the scheduled time. Thanks for lettin’ me stay for the weekend.”

Kita is taller now, hair kept a little shorter than he did in high school. He’s dressed in a plain blue jumpsuit, muddy gloves tucked in his pocket. But he still has the easy, silent grace he always has had, the same intense stare and efficiency and purpose to his actions with no wasted movement. And he’s still Kita, dear Kita, and you know every inch of him, from past to present.

“Obaasan likes ya, so it’s no problem,” he says, picking up your suitcase before you can protest. “She started preppin’ your room as soon as I told her ya were visiting for a while. She’s out visitin’ friends now, though.”

“How’s the farm doing? Want me ta help out?”

“Farm’s doing great, so you should only help if ya want to. I know yer here on break.”

“It’s not a problem!” you say, flexing your arm. “I still keep pretty fit. And I’d feel bad if I didn’t help out at all, ya know!”

When you come downstairs after arranging your luggage in your room (Kita is right. Yumie still has your pair of faded yellow slippers set out, and she fluffed up the futon and set up a vase of pink flowers to brighten up the room), Kita is waiting for you downstairs. He pulls you into his arms for a hug as soon as your feet touch the floor, and you try not to squeak in surprise at the gesture, at the strength hidden in his arms.

“I missed ya,” he says. There’s a confidence to his movements, an openness that he didn’t have before. It would have been unimaginable as children, the idea of Kita hugging you first, as if you belong nowhere else but his arms.

You wrap your arms around him, his body as familiar to you as your own, sinking into his touch. “I missed you, too.”

And then he pulls away, leaving you with only the tingling memory of his warmth all over your body.

“Yer not too tired?” he asks. “Was yer flight long? Did ya eat?”

“I slept on the train,” you say, ticking off on your fingers each question that you answer, “The flight wasn’t too long, and I packed lunch that I ate on the way over. If I didn’t, ya would’ve lectured me again, wouldn’t you?”

“Yer an adult, with a difficult job,” he says simply. “I wantcha to take care of yourself. Ya used to walk out the door in the mornings without making sure ta eat properly.”

“You’re always like this, Shin-kun. But I promise I won’t give ya a reason to worry anymore. I’m not a kid, so I know how to be careful now,” you say playfully. “Why don’t ya show me around?”

The rice paddies sprawl for what feels like miles with pools that reflect the blue sky and billowing clouds, as if shards of the sky have fallen to the earth. New, tender green shoots shyly peek their heads out, the start of the growing season. You walk on the outskirts of the fields, the same fields you once visited as a child during vacation.

Even if it feels the same, the plants and the gentle hands working the land are different. Each meter of land and each budding stalk is a testament to Kita’s diligence, to the dedication and care he puts into each and every single action he takes everyday.

“It’s beautiful,” you say. “A lot nicer to look at than my cubicle, that’s for sure.”

“Do ya have any weddings coming up?”

“Yup! I have a lot of clients who’ve booked me for May next month. That’s when the wedding season gets busiest, so I figured I might as well take advantage of our slow months to come see ya. It’s been ages, Shin-kun.”

“Have ya thought about your own wedding?”

“Me?” you say, startled. “It’s not something that’s really on my mind. I mean, there’s so much work that goes into it. And can ya imagine me gettin’ married? It’s a little silly. I’m the wedding planner, not the person who throws a wedding.”

“I can,” Kita says quietly. “And ya used to want ta, didn’t ya? When we were little. Did that change?”

“Shin-kun,” you say. The two of you have stopped walking, and a spring breeze stirs your hair.  “What do you mean? Did I say something like that?”

He takes a step closer to you. And wonderful Kita Shinsuke, your childhood friend, your best friend, the person you’ve always loved most in the entire world, pulls out a bundle of daisies from his pocket, green stem tied with a white ribbon, holding them out to you like a wedding ring.

“I want to marry ya,” he says plainly. “I’ve been waitin’ my whole life, ever since ya asked me when we were little. We couldn’t then, but we can now. I wanted ta make sure my finances were all right, and didn’t want to rush ya while you were still in school and settling into your job.”

“But–When did—How!” you say, words a jumbled mess. Your face is hot, hotter the sun, and you’re dizzy from the sheer intensity of Kita’s open, genuine affection. You take the flowers from him with trembling hands. They’re simple flowers, but you remember now, your childish eight-year-old self’s declaration, Kita’s response, an ordinary spring day. It was just a silly, impulsive choice, born out of the intensity of your affection for Kita, but Kita remembers, because of course he does. Because he’s always looking at you, as much as you’ve been looking at him.

“Did ya forget?” Kita says quietly, bringing your hand to his mouth, his lips ghosting across your fingertips, the promise of a kiss. He lowers your hand, but doesn’t let go, your fingers hooked over the edge of his palm. You can’t shake him off, you could never even think about it, because it’s Kita, Shin-kun, the most wonderful person in the entire world. “But I didn’t forget all this time, ever since you asked me. Even if you didn’t mean it, I did. I wanted to take my time, court you properly, ‘cause that’s just the right thing to do.”

“Shin-kun, ya said you didn’t want to marry me,” you protest, but your voice is weak even to your own ears. “I remembered that you rejected me!”

“I said we can’t, not that I didn’t want to marry you. I meant that we should wait until we were old enough to. Kids can’t get married, but adults can.”

“You weren’t very clear on that! How was I supposed to know what ya met?”

“That’s why I’m telling ya now. Marry me,” Kita whispers. “I’ve been waiting for you all my life. I can wait as long as you want me to, but I’m not as strong as ya think. I’m a greedy man when it comes to you.”

“Shin-kun, yer not being fair,” you whisper. “We haven’t even dated.”

“We don’t have ta get married right now. We can date first, get engaged. Take the time to plan everything, do it in the proper way. I love you,” he says. “I’ve loved ya ever since we were kids. If ya don’t feel the same, then you can tell me right now, and I’ll still be yer best friend. That won’t change. I’ll always love you, even if ya don’t love me in the same way.”

He’s impossible. He’s impossible, and this isn’t real, it can’t be. You bring the bundle of flowers to your face, the smooth edge of a waxen petal pressed against your lips. 

You can’t hide it anymore, even if you wanted to. You can’t lie to yourself, can’t pretend that your feelings are anything other than what they are. You have to stop running, because Kita is waiting for you, right here, right now, and he’s not going to leave. 

“I love you,” you say, voice choking. “Shin-kun, I love you. What are ya saying? You really think I wouldn’t feel the same way? I’ve loved ya since before I knew what love even was. Yer the most wonderful person in the world. I’d choose ya, again and again. I want to marry you, Kita Shinsuke, even if we gotta wait another ten years.”

The flowers fall from your lips as Kita cups your face, cradling you as tenderly as he’s always treated you, because he’s always going along with all your whims while never straying from your side. His lips are on yours, soft, sweet, and he kisses you. Again, and again, and again, an endless shower of kisses that rain on you, as if he’s making up for the years in which he couldn’t. And you accept his kisses greedily, parched earth finally watered, because Kita Shinsuke is the most wonderful man in the world, your best friend from childhood, and the person you love more than anyone else.

(“Yer really not going ta ask them out? I thought ya liked them. Yer young, Shinsuke. Ya gotta be bold,” Obaasan asks. She’s washing vegetables over the kitchen sink, shirt sleeves rolled up, as he chops radish on the cutting board, an efficient system for dinner that they’ve worked out ever since he moved in.

Ever since high school, she’s been slyly dropping hints about marriage, eyes drifting towards you meaningfully or inquiring about how your relationship has been going. But it’s Obaasan, so Kita dutifully entertains her questions every time even though he can see her ulterior motives, plain as day.

“I’m courtin’ them,” Kita says plainly, “In the way that works best for us. Datin’ would only make it more complicated, and I don’t think they want any of that yet, not with their job. ‘S no good to rush things. Ya taught me that.”

“Do they know that? What if someone snatches them up? They’re so cute, and they’re young and alone in a big city. Since they’re visitin’ tomorrow, ya gotta take the chance to say something, ya hear me? I want ta see the two of you at the altar soon.”

He thinks about the daisies he’s grown and picked that are now waiting patiently for your hands, the photographs from your childhood together carefully framed on his dresser, the years he’s spent by your side, nursing his feelings day by day, ritual by ritual.

“I’m not worried,” Kita says. “Because we’re important ta each other. Even if they didn’t love me like I loved them and married someone else, that wouldn’t change.”

Obaasan chuckles. “Ya know, the two of you really think alike. ‘S like yer meant to be. When you were babies, they used ta reach for ya on the playmat and chew on ya, but ya wouldn’t let go once they did. Clung to them like ya were afraid of them disappearing, like they belonged right by your side.”

“Obaasan?”

“‘S nothing. As long as the two of you find yer way to each other, it doesn’t matter how bumpy the road is. All that matters is that day by day, moment by moment, yer building yer life and relationship together. And as long as the two of you reach each other in the end, you’ll be okay.”)

he looked at you as if you'd asked whether the sky had always been blue. "no."

you blinked. "no?" you didn’t know what you expected to hear but it certainly wasn’t this. osamu had always been a good looking guy. as long as you remember he dated before you, he's also the perfect guy every girl wants, what does he mean he's never loved someone?

"no," he repeated simply. "like... no serious relationships?" you ask again. "had relationships." he says taking another bite of the sandwich but his eyes didn’t move from yours.

"but you were never in love with them?"

he shrugged. "didn't feel like this."

you stared at him. "wait."

osamu finally put down what remained of his food and gave you his full attention. "yer’ acting like i said something impossible."

"you're telling me that out of everyone you've met, dated, liked whatever i'm the only person you've ever actually been in love with?"

the confusion on his face deepened. "yeah."

"no, see, that's insane."

"why?"

"because people don't usually only fall in love once."

"says who?"

"says..." you gestured vaguely at the world around you. "everyone." he snorted. "sounds made up."

"samu." you turn your body to face his, the sun setting beside you two, glowing a yellow light on his face.

"hm?"

"how old are you?"

"thirty one." he shrugs, you know how old he is.

"you expect me to believe that at thirty one years old, you've only loved one person?"

his eyes stayed fixed on you, steady and unbothered in a way that almost frustrated you. "what?" he asked after a moment. "am i not the only person you've ever loved?"

you let out a short breath through your nose.

"of course not."

the answer came easily enough. too easily. you’ve lived a long life too. you have met many people, had many relationships, fell in love too. that's just how it is.

osamu went quiet.

"oh."

it was such a small response that you almost missed it. he nodded once to himself before turning his attention back toward the horizon. the sun had begun sinking lower, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that reflected against the water below.

"oh, come on," you said immediately. you shifted closer, reaching for his arm. "samu-"

he caught your hand before you could touch him, not rough but firm enough to stop you. "no," he said, still looking ahead. "it's fine."

"yer an adult" he said with a small shrug, trying for casual and missing by a mile. "would've been weird if i was actually the first."

"that's not what i meant."

"didn't say ya meant anythin'."

you stared at his profile. the slight tension in his jaw. the way he suddenly found the sunset far more interesting than you.

"samu."

"i'm fine."

you studied him for another moment before nudging your shoulder against his.

"for the record," you said softly, "none of them mattered enough for me to remember them the way i remember you."

"that's supposed to make me feel better?"

"it's true."

he looked back towards you again.

"hey" you murmured, almost embarrassed by the sincerity in his expression. "we're not teenagers anymore."

osamu reached over, his fingers brushing against yours before intertwining them together. his thumb rubbed absentmindedly over your knuckles. a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"yeah," he said softly. "i'm thirty one now and i have only loved you."