rintarō's in the locker room, fresh from the shower, towel wrapped around his neck, when one of his teammates knocks his shoulder as he walks past.
"your girl's cute, man," he says, "lucky guy."
"...i know," rintarō says. he flashes back briefly to atsumu asking, in his friendliest, brotherliest tone if he would be open to a threesome.
the moment is over without further implication, though, so he puts it out of his mind. his girl is cute. why get upset over fact?
on the train home, he holds onto the rail with one hand and tries not to make eye contact with anyone. he's not accosted often enough to avoid public transportation altogether, but he's made a habit of trying to avoid notice.
instead of looking at the people passing in and out through the doors, he zeroes in on his phone. he opens instagram, clicking mindlessly through recently posted stories.
onigiri miya is having an all-you-can-eat raw marinated crab day. rintarō hits like. aran has posted photos of his wife across a dinner table, a rose between the two of them. rintarō hits like. atsumu has posted seven shirtless photos flexing in a row. rintarō does not hit like.
the next photo is on your story. at first, he only thinks, wow, cute. the photo is framed to show your shoulders, a sliver of skin between the band of fabric and the bottom of the screen indicating that you're only wearing a bra, your hair tossed in a careless styled-unstyled kind of way, your face screwed up in a funny little smile. you make that expression when you're laughing at yourself, your eyes still dancing in this still photo.
tucked into your bra is a glossy photo of rintarō, jaw standing out and eyes burning fiercely as he strains midair toward the net, his form perfect as he takes advantage of a rare spiking opportunity.
my only bias is a middle blocker, says the caption. he can't stop himself from grinning, sure that he looks like an idiot as he smiles at his phone.
the crowds of people on the train thin out as he gets closer to the neighborhood where you live together, enabling him to pull out his phone and wallet, hooking a finger into the side of his mask and pulling it under his chin. he flips open his wallet to the polaroid he carries with him always, part of a set you'd gifted him for your second anniversary.
next to his face, you stare out from the laminated pocket, spread out over your bed, reaching out towards the photographer—toward him. you're wearing a black bra, not much more skin showing than the photo you'd posted, but there's a particular shine to the color of your mouth, red marks decorating your throat, your eyes hazy but your mouth caught in a permanent laugh. in the corner of the frame, you can see his hand, so big compared to the delicate wrist it's holding down.
only fan who gets to touch, he types, and hits post.
