#haicu

sugawara. 

it’s a simple sort of thing, relaxed, routine, almost -- light, dancing between you like fairies during a midsummer’s night, full of laughter and mischief. he’s always smiling when he’s with you, and at first, perhaps he’d been too nervous to be comfortable with the silence, but now, after both of you have relaxed into the contours of each other’s lives, it comes as easy as breathing, settling like first snow around you at night when you’re curled up reading on the couch, tucked into his side, him scrolling through the latest sports magazine or travel catalog, occasionally dropping a kiss into your hair; you think that if the quiet could be a physical thing, then the quiet between the pair of you must be made of feathers. 

asahi. 

its a long, drawn out, nervous kind of thing, because he always has too many things he wants to say and not enough words to say them with -- he can’t even begin to choose which words, and then if they’d fit right -- it takes you a while to acclimate to his particular brand of quiet, the kind that’s strung with the tension of wondering if this is comfortable, or good for you, or if he’s done something wrong. but once you convince him, with a kiss, or a smile, or your fingers through his, the quiet settles, dissipates, like twisting breath on a winter morning, there, and gone again. this is your favorite kind of quiet, and his too, the kind that strums with the knowledge that there’s nowhere else either of you would rather be. 

nishinoya. 

it’s a rare, peaceful kind of thing. when he’s finished telling you about his day, how it went, the weird lady on the bus ride back home who wouldn’t stop yelling into her phone about some kind of purse, about the curry bun that he had for lunch that day, and the juice box that he’d found in his locker, but it was overdue so he had to throw it away. and after you’ve told him about your day, the way the guy sitting behind you in class got yelled at again for dozing off in the middle of a lecture (”you think he’d have learned by now! but i guess i do that a lot too...”) and the strawberries you’d brought for lunch that day (”oh! we got those together! but i ate all mine in one sitting, remember? yeah i got a stomachache afterwards...”) and how the usual stray cat wasn’t there on your walk home (”really? what do you think happened to her? i hope she’s okay.”). that’s when the quiet comes, in the comfort and lull between conversations, in the way he smiles as he digs into yet another quart of icecream (”but i worked so hard today at practice! i deserve this”) and you steal bites from his spoon. he’d never realized that so much can be said in the bump of a shoulder or the flutter of an eyelash or a quirk of the lips, but he learns, oh, he learns. 

tanaka.

it’s a heavy, thick, churning kind of thing, where neither of you know what to say but both of you know that something needs to be said. and yet still, you let the quiet sit and stretch between you, molten and sticky, like spilled honey, though not always so sweet. he’d never known that fights could be so quiet, and now that he knew, he thinks he’d prefer it if you screamed instead; but you don’t, and he doesn’t either, because he could never really be angry at you for long, and he’d do anything to make it all go away, to bring back your smile, the crinkle by your eyes, the way you scrunch your nose when you laugh. so he reaches for your hand, a tentative little touch at first, and when you don’t pull away, he laces your fingers and gives you a squeeze. you hesitate, but after a moment, you squeeze back, and he takes a breath, and you take a breath, and somehow, even though neither of you has said a single thing, he knows you’ll be alright. 

tsukishima. 

it’s a thin, strung out, teasing sort of thing, the way he tilts his head and lets the quiet linger, waiting for the first breath of realization, the first swing of a punchline he’s been waiting to hit all day. he wields the quiet the way assassins wield daggers, all silver tongue and shadows, sharpened on the raw edge of his wit and hunger. the silence may be still but it’s never static, his thoughts always running ahead of you both, thinking too much or maybe just enough, on what to do next -- the infinite possibilities. but you learn to play his game, because you’re nothing short of brilliant, and soon he finds himself coughing or blushing at the hint of a smile, the breath of a tease dancing along your lips like candlelit shadows. he learns, quietly, to swallow his pride once in a while, to open up, every so often, and to accept that he’s finally met his match. when he finally admits this to you, don’t don’t say anything -- you just look at him. and tilt your head. and smile. 

kageyama. 

it’s normal, everyday sort of thing, because he’d never been too great with words, so the quiet is his default mode of function. but there’s an art of the mastery of silence, and kageyama is nothing if not a genius (at least at the things he’s good at); it takes a while for you to get used to, the way he goes quiet when he’s thinking really hard, or concentrating on thinking really hard, or trying to not concentrate on thinking too hard. there are so many brands of silence with him that it’s almost like learning a new language, one where each and every breath has meaning folded into its crest and wave, where each tap of the fingers and twist of the wrist speaks multitudes in their own right. but he teaches you, patiently, quietly, because you’re worth it, so his smile says, the one that he doesn’t show to the world because he still doesn’t think it’s good enough yet (you tell him with a kiss that that’s not how smiles work). he teaches you, and you learn, and in turn, he learns that sometimes, just sometimes, saying things out loud really isn’t the worst thing, and that no, hinata is not the best standard to measure people by because he’s just as strange. he learns that words can be beautiful too, like hey or i missed you or i love you and me too. 

hinata.