Kenjirou jumped as a large hand landed on his shoulder. He’d been on his way back to the bus after their day of matches, lagging behind the team because he’d spent too long calming his jangled nerves in the bathroom, and now some huge person was attacking him from behind. He whirled only to see it wasn’t “some huge person”; it was the huge person. 

“Ushijima-san!” Kenjirou said, pulse speeding. It was a little nerve-wracking to talk to Shiratorizawa’s stoic ace off the court, though at the moment Ushijima was carrying an armful of bouquets apparently given to him by fans; it softened him.

“Kenjirou... -kun,” Ushijima said awkwardly. Kenjirou’s brows rose. Since when did Ushijima call him anything but Shirabu? And since when did he duck his head like that while talking to him?

“Can I help you with anything?” Kenjirou asked, only for those bouquets to be shoved into his face. “Ah! I can help carry---”

“These were given to me,” Ushijima said; Kenjirou had understood that much himself. “But I want you to have them.”

Their eyes met over the colorful flowers, Kenjirou’s confused, Ushijima’s determined. They were both holding the flowers now.

“You are steady like the soil these flowers grew from,” Ushijima said. “Good, strong soil.”

Kenjirou blinked, and the weight of the bouquets dropped into his hands; Ushijima had let go. Was Ushijima making a joke? Did he have a sense of humor after all?

“If you’d wanted me to carry these for you,” Kenjirou said cautiously, trying to crack a smile, “You could have just asked.”

Ushijima looked at him sternly. “I never say no to good produce. You don’t... like them?”

Kenjirou’s heart rate doubled as he realized that---as always---Ushijima was serious. He rushed to correct his mistake. “No, no! They’re---they’re wonderful.”