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-- Summer --
The grass turns yellow, dry and coarse under the scorching sunshine that hits the ground in an almost perfect ninety-degree angle, leaving little to no shade to hide under for the two boys sitting closely together. Satori tears at the grass absent-mindedly, brain hazy and unfocused.
The heat.
The heat is unbearable.
The sunshine gets caught in Ushijima’s hair, splits running through the droplets of sweat caught in his brow and scatters across his cheeks in the colours of the rainbow. His eyes gaze past Satori, watching over the group of first years fooling around with a hose by the gym. Satori follows his glance, wincing at the light reflecting off the white walls of the gym.
Too bright. (Too little sleep.)
He spots Goshiki immediately, his trademark bowl-cut all ruffled up and wet, laughing and complaining at the same time. He glances back at Ushijima, face stern and posture straight, quite expecting him to say something about wasting water.
Ushijima, however, always manages to thwart his expectations.
“Goshiki looks happy,” he says.
“He does,” Satori agrees, gaze never leaving Ushijima. He admires the high cheekbones, the strong brows, the mossy green eyes. He wonders, what kind of sorcery would have been necessary to create such a perfect human being.
The tip of Ushijima’s nose shines in the sun; not because his skin is greasy, but it is not flaky dry like Satori’s either. It has that perfect texture, looking all soft and plump, which entices Tendou to reach out and touch it. The tip of Satori’s finger comes in contact with the tip of Ushijima’s nose. It’s warm.
Smooth.
Firm.
In this heat, even panic hits lazy: Satori’s head starts sprinting, but his hand doesn’t budge. He rakes his brain for an explanation, something to respond to Ushijima who wordlessly blinks at him surprised, but he gets nothing. He doesn’t know why he felt like touching Ushijima. But it’s not as if he regretted it.
“Boop,” Satori says.
“Boop?” Ushijima raises a brow. A drop of sweat glides past his temple, the corner of his eyes crease with the beginning of an expression.
Satori wonders whether it would be a frown.
Ushijima, once again, proves him wrong. A little smile spreads on his face as he lifts his left, placing his index finger right on top of Satori’s nose, giving it a gentle, hesitant press.
“Boop.”
-- Autumn --
Tendou took art as his elective because he sucks at it. He could have chosen music -- he loves singing after all -- and considered taking horse riding just for kicks, but art… art is something he is interested in, but really, truly, tragically bad at.
“I want to better myself, you see,” he explains, his hands moving at a fast speed, drawing intricate patterns in the air before Wakatoshi. “Challenge myself a little? Something like that. Talent is not some mysterious thing; if I find a method that works for me and work hard on it, one day you may see my manga in the Jump!”
Wakatoshi doesn’t necessarily feel the need to say anything. Tendou tends to speak for both of them, and for one, he loves to listen to his stories. The world, as described by Tendou, seems like an exciting, colourful place. From the most mundane to the wickedest of moments, Tendou can express in such a vibrant, expressive way that even if his stories repeat sometimes, Wakatoshi doesn’t mind it. He follows Tendou’s hands mesmerized, watches his body language and studies his face. Tendou is not simply animated, he is animation himself. His arms paint stories in the air and as he opens his mouth, entire worlds fall out of it -- even if their teammates call out on him for borrowing elements of his favourite mangas from time to time.
“Anyways, I apologize in advance, Wakatoshi-kun,” Tendou continues, unbothered by Wakatoshi’s silence, “I’m afraid my drawing skills are not adequate to capture your beauty.”
“Don’t apologize, Tendou. It’s commendable that you want to improve yourself,” Wakatoshi says firmly, and he hopes that his tone shows his intentions to be reassuring.
“Thanks, Wakatoshi-kun,” Tendou smiles, and rocks backwards on his chair. “I’m done!”
Wakatoshi nods. “Me too.”
“Oh, come on now, you’ve been ready for a while,” Tendou replies.
“Not really,” Wakatoshi says. “I just didn’t include that many details.”
“You say that but I bet yours is still much better than mine.”
“This is not a competition, Tendou.”
“I know,” Tendou laughs in return. “But look,” he lifts his drawing.
Wakatoshi looks. He sees the most adorable stick figure he has ever seen. It may have a few hastily drawn strokes for legs and arms spreading towards the four corners of the page, with a clumsy little torso in between; its head might be half the size of its entire body, however, Tendou didn’t shy away from using colour. He gave Wakatoshi bright pink arms, sky blue legs, vibrant green eyes, and a vivid purple volleyball jersey, and surrounded him with red, orange and brown dots.
“Those are leaves,” Tendou adds as if he could read Wakatoshi’s mind. “This is you during your morning run.”
“I see.”
“Now, show me yours,” Tendou scoots closer, peeking up at Wakatoshi from behind his drawing.
“Mine is not this imaginative,” Wakatoshi says, handing over his own drawing to Tendou. “I just drew you as you were.”
“Wow,” Tendou says, eyes going wide. “How do you do that, Wakatoshi?” he asks, motioning vaguely all over the paper.
Wakatoshi shrugs. His drawing is nothing special; no matter how much he perfected his lines, he just can’t do justice to Tendou. He can give back his facial features, sure, but the boy on the paper doesn’t have what it takes to be Tendou -- the energy, the liveliness, the freedom -- he seems like a caged bird in comparison, sitting kind of rigidly in his chair and with only a speck of light reflecting his eyes.
The real Tendou sitting in front of him is shining.
“It’s amazing!” Tendou continues excitedly. “You’re the real deal! If we paired up, we could make it! I bring the story, you take care of the art, what do you say? Don’t you want us to break into the manga world with a bam?”
“I plan to go professional,” Wakatoshi replies, honest, “and play until I can. Then, after retirement, I thought of joining a team as a coach, but if that doesn’t work out…”
“Hold your horses, Wakatoshi-kun, I was half-joking,” Tendou laughs. “Though your art really is something, huh? Mine feels really bad in comparison,” he says.
“I like it,” Wakatoshi says, squeezing the paper between his fingers.
“No need to console me, Wakatoshi, I know it’s bad.”
“I’m not lying. I really like it,” Wakatoshi asserts, pulling the drawing further away to his side so Tendou can’t reach it and snatch it back.
He is not lying. He never lies. He likes the drawing a lot. It screams of Tendou.
“Can I keep it?”
“Wha--why? Of course, I guess,” Tendou says, surprised. “But only if I get to keep yours in exchange.”
-- Winter --
The kotatsu is warm, but Ushijima is warmer, and Satori shamelessly rubs against his side.
“It’s so cold,” he whines.
Ushijima, carefully peeling clementines, makes no comment on the invasion of his personal space; he simply holds out a freshly peeled fruit towards Satori, and when he lazily opens his mouth, pushes the whole clementine in.
“Too much, Wakatoshi-kun,” Satori says fully-mouthed.
“Sorry, I didn’t understand that.”
“Because you put too much in my mouth!” Satori complains after he already chew and swallowed the fruit.
“I thought you would take it,” Wakatoshi peers down at him over his shoulder, “with your hands.”
“I’m so tired,” Satori replies, throwing himself across the surface of the kotatsu.
“Even though you overslept this morning?”
“That… that’s my fault, I kept pressing the snooze button until it was too late,” Satori laughs. “But you have to understand. Winter is not fair. It’s so cold and it gets dark so quickly. My blanket is soft and warm, why would I want to get out of bed?”
Ushijima sends him a pointed look -- Satori readies himself for some scolding -- but in the end, Ushijima purses his lips more confused than annoyed.
“I see your point. But what is a snooze button?”
Satori’s jaw drops; even his blood stops flowing in his veins for a second. “Don’t tell me you never snoozed the alarm on your phone to stay in bed for ten more minutes.”
“I use an alarm clock,” says Ushijima, the diligent boy. “I don’t think it has a function to prolong the alarm, but even if it had, what would I do in those ten minutes? If the alarm has already rung I am awake.”
“Roll over! Daydream! Procrastinate! It’s humanity’s greatest invention!” Satori throws his hands in the air in frustration.
“If you say so,” Ushijima says. “I peeled all the clementines. Let’s start the revision for the test.”
“You don’t understand the beauty of procrastination at all, do you?” Satori whines, even though it’s one of the reasons why he fell for Ushijima in the first place.
He is so damn straight-laced. No corners, no gray areas.
Mischief tickles the sides of Satori, sitting up and looking Ushijima in the eye.
Ushijima is clean white.
He wants to paint him in his colours.
-- Spring --
Spring comes in roaring, fast and strong and ravenous, eating up the weeks and days until graduation like some huge mythical beast and Wakatoshi grasps the concept of procrastination for the first time.
The headmaster’s speech is longer than necessary, yet it ends so quickly. The volleyball team meets up for one last commemorative photo in front of the school; Washijo sensei begrudgingly takes his place in the middle, right between Wakatoshi and Tendou, while Saito sensei sheds tears standing behind the camera. They take one, five, ten pictures -- someone always blinks, then Goshiki gets the worst case of the sneezes, then Shirabu needs to fix his bangs, then Yamagata decides they should do different poses and Wakatoshi is just as clueless as Washijo sensei when it comes to the different pose names the libero spouts; following along with Tendou’s guidance aimed at their coach -- but somehow it’s over soon again, and Wakatoshi finds himself dragged away by a classmate for a different photo.
A snooze button, Wakatoshi remembers randomly, and his side warms up at the memory of Tendou leaning against it.
He wants to press it now.
Prolong the time he can spend with the team.
He stands at the edge of the picture for his class, then takes another with Semi and his group of girl friends (fans, as Tendou would say in a mocking tone) whose name Wakatoshi doesn’t even know. Goshiki finds him next, declaring that he will be the best ace in Shiratorizawa’s history. Wakatoshi wishes him good luck. Semi, overhearing it, starts laughing.
Tendou runs up to them, dragging Soekawa and Oohira with him, demanding a selfie with all the “serious gang”.
The graduation certificate digs into Wakatoshi’s skin as he squeezes it. If there is a button somewhere sewn into the fabric of reality, he desires intensely to know how to access it.
Ten more minutes.
That is all he wants.
Wakatoshi barely registers the shutter sound of Tendou’s phone, and even in confronting him with his own confused expression, immortalized for posterity, Wakatoshi’s eyes are glued to the smile curling mischievously upwards on the screen, to the deep red eyes shining lively echoing the smile; to the arm swung around his shoulder carefree.
Just ten more minutes. Then ten other.
Prolong the time he can watch and hear Tendou.
A long, pale finger appears in his vision, booping his nose curiously and dragging Wakatoshi back to reality. “Earth to Wakatoshi,” Tendou smiles.
“Sorry,” Wakatoshi blinks. “I got a little distracted. Where are Oohira and Soekawa?”
“I set them free,” Tendou says. “It’s time I monopolize our ace.”
“Yes.”
“Yes?” Tendou laughs. “What kind of reply is that, Wakatoshi-kun?”
Instead of answering Tendou’s teasing, Wakatoshi grabs the hand of his red-haired friend and pulls him away from the crowd, then, hiding behind a column, he leans close, pressing his lips on the top of Tendou’s nose. He may have grasped the concept of procrastination, but it doesn’t necessitate that he definitely has to succumb into it, does it?
He watches as Tendou’s face turns as red as his hair; he watches as the fingers he loves so much come up to hide the face he can’t get enough of seeing, he listens as Tendou gives out the least coherent thing he has ever heard.
Wakatoshi smiles, peeling the hands off of Tendou’s face.
“Boop,” he says.
“Boop?” Tendou asks, raising a brow. He is not any less red, but his fingers curl around Wakatoshi’s hands quickly. “If you ask me, that was a barely passable attempt at kissing. Do you know where my lips are, Wakatoshi-kun, or do you want me to show you?”
“I know where your lips are,” Wakatoshi confirms. “But I didn’t want to overstep…”
“Stop,” Tendou cuts in, releasing Wakatoshi’s hands to cup his face instead. “I don’t want to see you hesitate. Or rather. I would like to say something like ‘shut up and kiss me’ you know, like in the movies?”
Wakatoshi doesn’t know. Still, he complies.